Surrender, Book 1 of The Green Hills of Home
by nightbird47
Summary: In the final battle over Cardassia, the Federation and her allies are defeated, leading to captivity and slavery for the peoples of the Alpha quadrant.  This is the story of the survivors of Deep Space Nine.  A companion story to Legacy.
1. Surrender Part 1Chapter 1

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

Summary: The battle over Cardassia ends in an allied defeat and the beginning of the end of everything for the Federation and the Alpha Quadrant. When does the act of survival cross the line to becoming collaboration?

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All regular series characters and references to events in the cannon Star Trek universe are the property of Paramount Studios. The other characters are mine.

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

what if ...

The final battle over Cardassia has been lost and a few ships, the Defiant among them, are able to escape. Most that try are destroyed. But the Defiant is in need of massive repairs, and the Dominion fleet, with Breen support, follows the retreating ships, taking whatever is in the way. Their first target is the Bajoran wormhole.

My heart turns home in longing

Across the voids between,

To know beyond the spaceship

The hills of Earth are green.

Across the seas of darkness,

The good green Earth is bright;

Oh, star that was my homeland,

Shine down on me tonight.

We pray for one last landing

On the globe that gave us birth;

Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies

And the cool green hills of Earth.

Robert Heinlein, The Green Hills of Earth

This story is set in the trek world, but is mostly about human reactions to the humiliation and degradation of long term captivity and what it does to them. Many of the events are based on real world human events and habits. I hope I've done a good job of showing what the loss of freedom does to the soul. This novel is dedicated to the uncounted souls who have had to live the story of Surrender throughout human history.

The trek background of the Dominion policy of using captives for forced/slave labor is based on the Dominion war series, published by Pocket Books.

Chapter 1

The corridor is jammed with people, shoved ahead by the Jem'Hadar as they push me away from the Infirmary, my Infirmary. I'm still too stunned by the surrender to believe it, can still hear the way Worf stumbled over the words. Why Worf? Is Sisko dead? Injured? I watched Jake's face as it was announced, frozen before the realization hit him that his father should be saying the words, not Worf . . .

But Jake got out, stumbling along in shock, lost somewhere in this mob. I can't stop the worry about those we left behind as the Jem'Hadar rushed us out without concern for the wounded. My patients are still there, those that couldn't walk. My back still stings from the rifle butt that was smashed into my shoulder when I tried to help one of them as he fell.

It all happened so fast. Suddenly the Jem'Hadar were everywhere. Those who hesitated, who panicked and ran, who had to resist, are dead now, shot on the spot. The people in this mob wanted to live.

I got lost in the crowd after that, but search the sea of scared faces for my people while we're crowded closer. I know many of these people, if only by name, but hardly recognize them now. They are just a sea of terrified faces, already twisted by shock into an unthinking mob. I must find my own staff, have to make sure they are all right. Anyone with knowledge of first aide had been sent to help me, Jake and Ezri among them. I notice one of my nurses, Bandee, a recent arrival from Starfleet Medical, as she pauses in confusion and is wacked by another rifle. I can just reach her, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling.

If she falls they'll shoot her.

Down a ways, Jake's head stands a little above the crowd. He's moving in fits and starts, pushed ahead by the swirl of people. Ezri was next to him as we were forced out the door. Little flashes of our one night together, slowly exploring her spots, haunt me suddenly. More than anyone else, I need to know she is safe. Suddenly, I must know where she is. After all the time we wasted discovering we wanted each other I can't lose her now. But she's too short; in this crowd she could be trampled. I can't find her.

Ahead is another corridor and more are being shoved into the mob. I catch a quick glance of Quark, holding his upraised palm ahead of him, trying to keep back the press of bodies. I have to find her soon, before she is pushed too far ahead. I shove the people next to me out of the way, careful not to look at them. There is just enough space to slip ahead of them without losing my balance. The whole crowd is pressing back now, with the pressure from those being merged with us. My foot slips. I grab the nearest person as we all freeze at the sound.

The whine of rifles is coming from my Infirmary. All the time, all the hope, ended so finally. I can't help but stop, looking back, and almost fall in the sudden confusion as we're forced back and ahead at the same time.

Someone steps on my foot, and I try to get out of his way. I grab him to keep us both from falling. The second corridor is past now. Muffled orders to hurry echo down the halls as the guards herd us closer and push us faster. I hurry too, but now the desperation is greater. Jake is ahead of me now, pushed half-way down the next corridor by the new people. I can't tell if Ezri is near. I must find her. She's so small. She could get lost in this crowd.

A sudden shove ripples down the hallway and there is a scream behind me, and a shot. Then another scream, another shot. The fear is palatable now, a deathly quiet coming over everyone. We move faster-edgy, less careful, hardly noticing the feet and elbows that poke us. The Jem'Hadar have pushed us to a turn in the corridor and we grind to a stop, forced against each other.

I can't see Jake anymore. But Ezri is so short. She could still be ahead of me in the mob. I might not have lost her.

Then, quite suddenly I realize Ezri is in front of me. Without thinking, I take her hand, wrap my arm around her and draw her towards me. In the silence, I lean over and whisper into her ear, "Don't let go. Don't let us be separated."

She nods, not making a sound. Pressed against me, every muscle is tense. Her hand, clenched in mine, is clammy with sweat. Crowded too closely, she takes short, quick breaths when the crush of bodies is momentarily relieved. I try to shelter her with my arms as we're pushed closer and ahead-but not so quickly now. Trying not to fall, we had something to distract us. Now, the pace much slower, there is little room to move at all. Now, we can think of our destination.

Ezri stares at the crowd, gasping for breath, but letting me guide her. In her eyes is a glimpse of hell. With all those lifetimes, does she know too much of what is to come? Or is she just Ezri, facing the unknown, but knowing just enough of the Breen and Dominion's ways to guess? Either way, I will keep from losing her.

Pulling her closer, I vow we will not be separated. At the internment camp, they stored us together. But there have been rumors that it's worse now, that we are being forcibly used for labor. Surrounded by terrified people, images of the camp fill my mind and it haunts me. I remember it too well. I know what it's like to have the Jem'Hadar watch your every move. I still have nightmares about my time in isolation. I don't want to be in the middle of a nightmare that doesn't end with morning.

There are a wall of guards now, all pointing their rifles at us, bayonets extended. How many of these people wonder if it wouldn't be better to die now? Stopped before a line of death, we are crammed together, Ezri firmly clasped in my arms. She's staring at them and their rifles hardly breathing, as the first people are pulled out of the crowd, reluctant to leave the safety of the others. They pull back, first, and then rush forward as the poke of weapons hurry them on. Moved ahead as the guards shove us along, I watch as the Jem'Hadar take communicators and roughly search for any other equipment they can find. Here and there people resist and are hit for their trouble, but only to hurt this time. And they take more than equipment. Anything personal is stolen as well. Ezri is almost rigid, staring ahead, and I worry they'll hurt her as gradually we are moved closer to the line of Jem'Hadar and their rough touch.

I can see them now, as Ezri holds my hand so tight it hurts. With a rough grip the guard grabs my arm and I'm shoved forward, his gruff voice ordering me to let go of her.

I try to loosen my hold without losing her, but she can't move. Abruptly, a rifle is shoved at her head. The guard simply says, "Now."

I reluctantly let go, but she's still next to me. When they are done I'll grab her hand. I edge closer to Ezri until the guard yanks me back.

First, they take our communicators, then rough hands back up a scan. We do not resist. They confiscate a tricorder I'd forgotten and then try to shove me ahead, but I balk. Ezri is still being held. She has something clutched in her hand.

"Now," orders the guard, again, with a terrible finality. He has me by the arm, ready to shove me ahead.

She's still standing there, frozen in place, her skin blanched white she's holding it so hard. I back up a little and grab her hand, forcing it open. It's a small pendant, something of Jadzia's. It's taken, and I hold her again as they shove us forward.

I didn't want to lose any memories of Jadzia, but it wasn't worth Ezri's life.

Numb with relief, we're pushed into the turbolift with a few others, holding tight to each other as the lift drops suddenly, descending to the half-finished areas below where we stored excess supplies. Are we to be stowed away with the same care as the crates and supplies that might sit for months before they were used?

Ezri is pressed against me, still tense but . . . different. Out of the crush of bodies she can breath again. She slides closer as the overloaded lift wobbles a little.

"I won't let go again," I assure her, whispering softly. It is a promise. We will have to be forcibly separated. In the half-light of the lift her eyes are watching, alert and curious, no longer suspended in a nightmare.

Checking the group, I see both civilians and military, men and women, even a few children. We haven't been sorted out. But below?

Then the lift lurches to a stop and we're summarily pushed out of the way into another crowded sea of prisoners. Here, the fear is worse. Ezri moves closer, my arms around her again. Her quick breaths and pounding heart worry me, but I can't help. All I can do is hold her.

We're not alone. Here and there, others cling to each other, desperate to stay together. It's half-dark here, and cold. Off in the corner is a tall man that could be Jake, but the light is too dim to be sure. The air is musty and dank. Nobody asked our names. We stand in the shadows, scared and staring. Suddenly, a door creaks open near us and guards shove us inside the cavernous warehouse. Ezri moves with me, matching my hesitant steps, as I back towards the wall, others being forced inside and slide along as the crowd fills the space. Abruptly, the door shuts, and I collapse to the floor still entwined in her arms. There is no sound but the movement of bodies as people collapse in sudden relief.

The guards are on the other side of the door for now. We are crowded but can move around. Aside from a few bruises, nobody is hurt. It's too dark to see much of anything, even the source of the pungent smell filling the room.

Silence reigns as we wait while other rooms are filled with living cargo. We can hear the muffled sounds of their movement as they are forced inside. After the hurried evacuation we're giving into exhaustion and shock is taking over.

I tell myself we didn't send the whole fleet to Cardassia. The station has been too badly damaged for them to use it against anyone. We can't give up hope of rescue.

But the cold is very hard to ignore. And the silence is worse, much scarier than the shouting guards. Nobody knows what comes next, what new indignity we'll be forced into. Ezri is very still, probably still in shock, and I hold her close. Before the Defiant left for Cardassia, we promised we'd come home alive. We managed to keep that promise. I make a silent vow to her that we will stay alive.

It is cold, though not as cold as it would be if this place were empty. My mind is drifting, half-asleep, replaying over and over that moment the Jem'Hadar swarmed into the Infirmary, forcing us away immediately. Still stunned by the surrender, by the mystery of Sisko's fate, we were denied the chance to make any plans, any heroic last stands, and were shoved out and down into this purgatory. But this is not the end. We have only begun this roller coaster ride to hell.

o0o

How long has it been since we were trapped in this nightmare? There's no more sense of time. There is just the cold and the hunger-and most of all thirst. All of it together-especially the fear-bring a wary kind of reality to this place.

People are talking quietly, coming out of shock. Now and then they call out for someone in particular. Families are separated, often as those on duty were trapped away at the their posts when captured. The fear is palatable. Nobody knows if they'll get a chance to find their loved ones later. A little girl is crying because she can't find her mother. She's quieter now, the sobs almost inaudible. Someone is trying to comfort her. I hold Ezri closer, huddling together as we try to stay warm.

It's so cold. She presses close and I surround her, feeling her relax a bit as she warms a little. Her breathing slows and she's half-asleep. We don't talk. It's enough to have each other right now with so many lost or alone. She wraps her arms around me and we try to keep away the cold and the fears.

In the turbolift, that time before with Jadzia, we'd held each other for comfort and warmth. The cold had been icy that time, but this is worse. Then, there would be rescue. Now, lost in this darkness, the hope of release is already fading. We hoped for the muffled sounds of battle, but there has been nothing but silence.

Our captors aren't ready yet. We're relegated to this dark, smelly hell like excess baggage. With nothing to eat or drink, hope fading, and a hard grimy floor our only bed they'll keep us here until we're hungry and desperate enough to take what they offer without complaint.

I keep thinking of how fast Martok and Tain rushed out when we were ordered to assemble. Even the powerful can be forced into behaving. Each time I fall asleep, I'm haunted by memories of the internment camp, the hopeless feeling tempered by the hope of Tain's transmitter. Each time I wake I've managed to forget where we are.

My stomach grumbles constantly. But I can live with that a little easier than the thirst. We have had nothing to drink. Mouths dry, the lightheaded feeling from early dehydration noticeable, we curl together as thirst gradually becomes a greater preoccupation than hunger or cold.

Here and there, people mumble prayers to their chosen deities. I wonder if some are simply hedging their bets. As the war got worse more and more Starfleeters found time to visit the Bajoran Temple, just in case.

I'm half asleep, Ezri curled inside my arms, when a screech from the door and the sound of boots instantly wakes me. For a terrible moment, I'm worried it's over and we'll all die. I hold Ezri tighter and she stirs, looking first at me and then the open door.

The Jem'Hadar, rifles pointed at us, pour inside. Something heavy is dragged along, and I watch as a couple of people try to slip past the guards. It's too dark to see who they are, but I have a strange indifference to their fate as they are shot on the spot and everybody near the door quickly backs up. It was a stupid thing to do. It's better not to know, to keep their deaths off in the distance. But nobody else will try to run now.

But then, everyone stops at the sound of water slowly sloshing in its barrel. The men with the water retreat, dragging the dead with them, and it is all I can do to keep from rushing forward even with the guards. All I can hear is the water, and Ezri, no longer lost in her thoughts, is hurriedly untangling herself, ready to get to her feet. Relief floods our faces as the door is forced shut and the first dipper is pulled from it. We are still hungry and cold and face an uncertain future, but there is water.

All that exists is the water. It drives away the rest-the fears and hunger and cold. Ezri is trying to stand, the crowd already moving towards the door, again in darkness. For a moment there is hesitation, but then there is a rush, and the sound of shoving and arguing. I'm so thirsty I could clear a path myself, but my legs are too stiff to move that fast. Ezri and I start edging around the mob, hugging the wall.

My heart is racing as we grow closer. Someone hands me a wet handle and I drink a little of the water in the dipper. It has a metallic taste and is warm, but tastes better than the finest wine I've ever had. I give the rest to Ezri. She is staring at the water, still holding onto me. They take the dipper back but more is brought.

Suddenly overjoyed, I recognize a voice. Miles. "Julian, you okay?" he asks. "Where's Ezri?"

"She's here," I say, relief flooding my raspy voice.

"I can't find Keiko. I got to our quarters but the whole area had been cleared out."

I have to reassure him. I can't stand the thought of him losing his family. The area where their quarters were was undamaged. They probably weren't hurt. "We didn't get any patients from that area," I say, remembering the sound of their dying and suddenly unable to continue.

"They're here, not this bay, but here. Somebody told me." There is defeat in his tone, a deep anger he can't quite hide. Pushing his way past the ring of thirsty people around the barrel, he finds his way to us. He collapses in my arms, and the three of us share an emotional reunion. I can't help but wonder if he'll see Keiko again, how the children fared in the mob. But I keep that to myself.

Then there is a noise, a squeak by the door. Ezri straightens up and we watch as the door is pushed open a little and someone is shoved inside.

Worf. Miles moves away, pulls him to us. We make sure everyone has a last drink before sliding back to our place by the wall.

Miles crumples besides me. Ezri sits between Worf and I, her hand on Worf's shoulder.

"This can't be," Miles mumbles, lapsing into silence. He cradles his arm, the shoulder wound healed but still sore.

"You'll find them," I tell him, knowing it isn't up to me but still hoping to reach through the deep gloom he's fallen into. But he ignores me and stares at the door.

Ezri sits closer, sharing warmth, but her attention is on Worf.

Very quietly, he starts to talk.

"This is a great dishonor," he says.

Ezri takes his hand. "You didn't have a choice. Much more and there wouldn't be a station."

Worf won't look at her. "Before the end, Weyoun offered a deal. Surrender now or everyone would die. I did not plan to accept but I was overruled."

"How?" asks someone nearby, listening.

Worf sits up straight, stiffening. "At phaser point, if you must know," he says reluctantly. "I regret not allowing them to shoot."

Silence reigns for a time as we try to visualize the last moments. Then someone else, another listener, asks the question we have been avoiding.

"What about Sisko?"

Worf fumes. Growling out the words, he says bitterly, "He ran away. He is a coward."

I don't know which cage Jake is in, but I'm glad he's not here, not this moment.

Even Miles is roused by the news. "The Captain wouldn't run," he mutters.

Bitterly, Worf explains. "The Dominion fleet was only on sensors, but it was obvious we were outgunned and outnumbered. Sisko was watching the readouts when he . . . froze. When he came out of his trance he wasn't interested in us. All he said was, 'I must go.' "

"Where?" asks Ezri, her voice too calm.

"Bajor. He took a runabout. I assume he made it."

Another vision, I wonder? But what could have possibly made him leave-run, I correct myself-on the eve of the last battle of our war? But then, he never considered what it would mean when he gave me to 31.

"It wouldn't have mattered," says Ezri, still sounding like desertion was a normal thing to do. "We still lost."

Worf doesn't buy it. "We were betrayed," he announces with finality. Then he adds quite softly, "and dishonored. *This* is not living."

Nobody can think of anything else to add. Worf pulls away, Ezri sliding onto my lap, between Miles and I, shivering a little. We leave Worf and his dishonor to himself for a little while.

Thirst sated at last, the room begins to quiet. More and more, it sinks in that we lost, that we are prisoners, that we're stuffed into the cargo holds of the station like things to be used up. My stomach growls, demanding food. The rough walls are rubbing sore places on my back and the cold is seeping through my uniform.

There is a rough stubble of beard on most of the men already. Here and there are small attempts at personal grooming, but there is little anyone can do. Already, the smell of crowded bodies is starting to compete with the still unknown stench.

Ezri falls asleep, cuddled between Miles and my lap. He says nothing, just staring into his own world. I doze a little, again, hoping to forget reality for a time. But all I can see and taste are the camp rations they fed us, the real walls of the prison. Deyos used the rations to keep us under control, and any attempt at fighting back got you locked in isolation.

I force myself to stay awake, not needing that nightmare too. There is no sound but the shuffling of bodies on the hard floor, and an occasional trip for water. It's very eery, so much quiet in such a crowded room.

The little girl has quit crying. Ezri has moved across both Miles and I, the three of us huddled closer. It feels colder now, somehow. Here and there are inaudible whispers. The water has helped, but all I can think of is something to eat. No matter how bad the nightmare, even Dominion rations would do.

Ezri moves a little and I realize she's awake. She looks up at me, scared but calm. "They were going to execute Worf and I before Damar let us go," she whispers, glancing at Worf.

"I know," I say uneasily. "There was the internment camp." She holds me closer and I wrap my arms around her. I guess if we're going to die it would be better to die together. I'm not sure if it wouldn't be better than living for who knows how long as their prisoners.

She kisses me, gently. We hold on to each other just in case this is the last time we have together.

o0o

I'm having a dream. I know it's a dream because Garak is here, and Garak is dead. But the rest of us are standing in lines, waiting for our lunch at the replimat. No one is sitting. Nobody has gotten any food.

Garak has wandered forward and now joins me in the line. "It's broken," he says. "Everything's broken."

I look at him again and notice the blood. He's covered with it, and looks a little too pale. "Let's go. You need to see a doctor." I try to get out of line, but he won't move. And my feet are too heavy to lift, as if I have heavy weights in my shoes.

"It's too late. I'd rather wait here, with you. They'll fix the replicator eventually. They won't let you starve." He is distracted, listening to some inner sound.

My stomach hurts, cramping a little already. How long have they left us with nothing but water? The barrel has been hit hard, and I hope more will be provided when that one is done. But I don't know. I'd like to have more water, help the hunger a little, but I don't want to use it up too fast.

And I'd have to get out of line. My feet won't move, no matter how hard I try to drag them.

A sound, and Garak and the replimat vanish. Worf is awake now, his shout having awakened everyone near. Ezri has rolled onto my legs, her full weight resting on my feet turned to the side, no feeling in my lower legs. She stirs, my feet starting to tingle as she pulls herself up and towards Worf.

Everyone nearby is looking at him, even those who can't see him in the dim greyish light. "I did not intend to wake anyone up," he says.

"A nightmare?" asks Ezri, lightly.

He is annoyed, but answers. "Not exactly. I did not remember being *here*," he adds, in a tone even Ezri should know to leave alone.

She doesn't. "You are here. Was it a good day to die?"

Worf glares at her, barely holding back his anger. "You do not pry into such things."

She's too calm, as if she was in her office. "It's my job. You were loud, almost violent. Someone could have gotten hurt, especially with all these people here."

Worf is smoldering now. "I will go elsewhere if you wish."

She eyes him levelly. "There isn't anywhere else to go." She adds, utterly calm. "You want an honorable death? You may get the chance for one. You may be able to battle them over and over until you've had all the fights you ever wanted."

Worf is startled, and doesn't immediately cover the shock. He glances at me, rubbing my legs as the tingle slowly gives into an ache, before he can hide the fear from her.

"It would be a more honorable way to die than like a vole trapped in an empty hold," he vows, looking around at those nearby, who are watching the entertainment with interest and anticipation. Not that a vole would have much of a chance in *this* particular cargo hold right now.

Ezri is ignoring his barely controlled temper. "Or maybe they'll give you a real fast death and just execute you."

"Much preferable over this," he announces, raising his voice. Then he gets quiet again. "I should have refused to surrender, made them shoot if they really wanted this. I would have not been responsible for it then."

Ezri sounds satisfied now. "You're not responsible. You can't control Weyoun or his guards. All you could do was the best possible thing *at the time* for the rest of us."

Worf clenches his fists as if to hit something, shaking them, arms tense, but drops them in frustration. "*I* gave them the station. I have dishonored myself, the house of Martok and all Klingons everywhere."

"That's very Klingon," she says, but softly, not as Ezri the counselor but Ezri the friend. "But it's not fair. All these people are alive since you surrendered when you had a chance. Ask them if they'd rather be dead. Don't impose your own sense of honor on them."

Worf looks around, the center of local attention in the dim light. "I will not. But I am still greatly dishonored."

He pulls himself back, resolutely refusing to look at anyone else. I give Ezri a curious glance, shuffling my legs around, trying to stretch them a little. I manage to bump Miles, still sleeping. He looks up at me, eyes half-focused. "Ee'Char? Is it time?"

"No, just go back to sleep," I tell him quietly. He leans back, immediately asleep. He's been mumbling to Ee'Char for a while.

Ezri is looking at him, her profession interest evident. "No," I tell her. "Leave him alone."

She shrugs, moving towards me again. She ignores Worf as she slides over my lap, between Miles and I, and rests her head on my shoulder. "I tried," she says.

But as she settles down in my arms, I keep remembering that moment when the Jem'Hadar held a rifle at my head, Garak still in the wall. If we hadn't succeeded, would I have preferred to die rather than face the particular sorts of punishment only spoken of as rumors? A little chill passes over me, a sudden flash of horror I won't explain. Ezri notices, looks at me oddly. "Just cold," I mumble, but inside I'm there, facing the longest moment of my life, waking in that narrow cot with the devastating realization that I'd been replaced, that this could be the rest of my life.

Now, the others bored, it's quiet again, or as quiet as a crowded room can get. But I'm still there, still lost in the grey of an existence I do not choose.

I wonder if later Ezri might discover that even Klingons can be right once in a while.

o0o

I keep gazing at the water barrel. The last time I was there, however long ago that was, it was almost empty. The water doesn't stop the constant awareness of food, but it helps a little. Worf keeps mumbling, half-asleep, fighting imaginary battles with the Jem'Hadar. I know what he's dreaming about, the kinds of fears he can't put to words. Each time I manage to sleep the grey walls of Barracks 6 enclose me again.

Of course, a cot and food would be paradise right now.

Miles is leaning forward, mumbling to Ee'Char occasionally, making imaginary sand drawings with his hands. He doesn't see any of us, but he's peaceful. Maybe that's better. I can't judge with Ezri lying across both of our laps asleep. At least Miles believes his family to be safe on the station.

Then a very loud scraping sound rouses everyone, even Miles and Worf, and the door is opened again. Nobody moves this time. Miles stares at it with confusion, Worf as if daring someone to a fight. Ezri is rubbing sleep from her eyes as she moves off my lap.

The light is very bright this time, far brighter than when the water came. It hurts our eyes, but you can make out quite plainly the line of Jem'Hadar and Breen standing in the way.

The Breen are holding their cattle prods out, Worf scowling as he glares at them. For a brief moment, Ezri looks alarmed and grips my hand. But then she slips back into the Ezri that came on the cargo lift, calmly watching, hardly perturbed at all.

I don't know which is worse, which is more dangerous for her should they come too close. They've almost shot her once, and I know what happens when you defy them.

At least we're far enough away for now.

They part in the middle, and a couple of prisoners drag in another barrel, removing the empty one. The tension is still there, still strong, but a little less desperate than before.

A couple of the Jem'Hadar move into the room, and we can see they also carry the cattle prods. But they each have a box, and abruptly they toss handfuls of something into the middle of the room.

Even with the Jem'Hadar standing there people are already scrambling for it. But none of it reaches the walls of this cold tomb. Just as quickly they are done, and without warning they retreat and shut the door.

"Some kind of rations," says a woman in the middle of the room.

"We didn't get any," says someone on the wall near us, worried, his voice on edge.

Suddenly, an unorganized re-distribution of the rations begins, as handfuls are tossed all over the room. I'm sure the people in the middle got more, but sent some our way to keep us where we are.

We're too hungry to have much energy anyway. A few land by me and I snatch them before anyone else can grab them. I'm hoping for more than three, but that is all that comes near.

They are Dominion rations. I recognize them instantly, even in the darkness. But the bad memories they bring no longer matter. Rations, even Dominion rations, are food. I can't guess how long its been, but I've been dreaming about eating each time I slept.

The others are looking at me. I divide each bar into four parts and share them between Worf and Miles and Ezri and I. Miles snatches them from me. Ezri takes them slowly, looking them over. Worf refuses at first.

"Eat, Worf. Doctor's orders," I tell him.

He looks at them for a second, then takes the pieces from me. "If you insist," he says, "but we are being fed like animals and to consume the food makes us like them."

"Eat it, Worf," says Ezri.

He grumbles, but eats. No one else has made such a fine distinction.

The people nearby who didn't get any glare back and start getting to their feet, moving towards the center of the room.

A more direct re-distribution has started as those who didn't catch any of the crumbs go looking for their share. There is a lot of movement which is hard to see in the dark, but the anger is quite plain. A whole range of noisy arguments have already started. The people who tried to horde the food are having it taken from them, sometimes violently. Someone pleads they don't have anymore, hadn't eaten yet.

If they are listening they must be pleased. They lock us away like garbage without food, and now we turn our anger on ourselves. Already, we are grateful for their crumbs; already we are being as they want us to be. A shouting match has turned physical and someone's been punched. A child is crying hysterically.

Several of our neighbors return with bars in hand, looking grimly satisfied. I could probably get more, but I will not be an animal for them.

"Look at that, there must be seven of the bars there," says an angry voice, drifting back. I listen, seeing the grim reality that in part they have already won, already own a little of us. The hoarder is robbed of his entire cache and the child cries louder.

I will not join the mob. Not yet. A few days more of this enforced starvation and blood would probably have been spilled.

Ezri stares at the bits of ration bar, and carefully takes a bite. Miles stares forward, toward the door, and just eats. I force myself not to gobble them up, fighting off all the bad memories the taste brings to life.

All the rations distributed, peacefully or not, people settle down to eat. It's very quiet again, with few comments. The general feeling finds the bars disgusting, but then few are in the mood to be picky now.

Ezri complains, "I'll take the algie stuff the Breen fed us."

Miles says nothing. I wonder if he's thinking of Keiko and the children, wondering where they are, if they managed to get any food. Or is he still with Ee'Char?

Worf stares grimly ahead, finally standing and joining the line moving towards the water. Ezri yawns, looking towards him and shaking her head. "Klingons," she mutters settling against my arm. "That was okay for breakfast. I wonder what we get for lunch."

o0o

There's an edgy feeling to crowd. We're all waiting for another feeding. People move around more, sleep less. Everyone wants to be ready to grab what they can. There will be no complaints about the rations this time.

The door groans open again, the room mostly silent except for occasional whispered conversation and the line for water. But this time a scared prisoner stumbles nervously inside to throw the food to the animals. He's very careful to hit the whole room. There are more of the bars, scattered everywhere in the darkness. I grab three, and the others one each.

I wonder if things got out of hand before and they didn't like the results.

I lean back, pulling Ezri closer, and prepare for another show.

But this time after the door slams and the scared prisoner is gone, a voice suddenly booms across the room. "Let's not be the animals they want us to be. Share. Anyone without anything?"

For a moment, nobody moves. We're still very hungry. Nobody wants to give up any little extra they might have found and might share with friends or family.

"Come on folks, we aren't going to repeat the last time, are we?" he asks. I doubt anyone regretted the food they ate, but there has been a guilty silence ever since.

Nearby, several people stand. Inside me, a little voice explains that it is perfectly right for me to have the extra bars. After all, we had less than a full one last time. But I remember the debacle the last feeding became and do not wish to see it repeated.

I give them each one of the bars. It is hard. I am so hungry. They sit down, already subdued. We're used to the near dark already. It's easier to see in than the light. Finally, everyone without food has sat down, and now everyone has something to eat.

The owner of the voice continues. "Ok, who has more than one?" Others stand. "Let's collect them, and divide them later. We need to see how many are in here too." I can hear his steps as he moves around the room, collecting the extras. He has made us listen with his voice. "We have to take care of each other," he says. "They won't."

Silence comes over the room. This time, Ezri says nothing. Sometimes food is food. Miles stares at the shut door, like he's been doing since we were first fed when he's awake. I eat my bar, thinking less about the memories this time than how good it feels to eat.

Worf holds the bar in his hand, just looking at it. Ezri has fallen asleep between Miles and I, and I ask, quietly, "Do they taste any different to you?"

He turns, his eyes thoughtful. "This one will. Perhaps someone will write a song about the man who gave us back our dignity."

"You could," I suggest.

"I am not a musician. Perhaps Ezri, for he is a most honorable man. I celebrate his spirit."

The man is moving around the room, counting little groups of people. He's careful not to step on anyone and takes great care to count all the children. They are worse off than the adults.

Worf turns away. "Somehow, I do not remember them tasting so good."

"I don't remember the taste mattering that much after a little while," I add.

Later, having finished our meager meal, most people have gone back to sleep, the only retreat to sanity left us. But we feel better now. We were not animals. We reclaimed ourselves today and somehow we must remember how important that is.

o0o

Five more feedings since we reclaimed ourselves, still cold, still hungry. Two more barrels of water. It's always prisoners who throw out the food, and sometimes they happen to spill a lot more than they throw. Maybe the guards intimidate them. Maybe they are done when the box is empty and somebody else will go hungry. I don't care. The last one was a feast-three bars apiece-but it was a long time before the next feeding.

Nothing else has changed. Miles sits and draws in the sand or stares at the door. Despite repeated attempts at conversation, not even Ezri can get him to talk. Worf eats his ration bars without complaint, stands in line for water, and waits for this to end. He won't argue with her anymore, but she still tries to talk about it.

The smell is worse, but we don't notice it too much now. The fuzz on my face is starting to itch, and its hard not to scratch. Some of the men don't bother stopping themselves, scratching their chins constantly. But a cut here could be fatal.

Everyone is tired and hungry, grimy and cold. Worse, there has been no assault on the station to free us. It's been seven feedings, but more days than that. If it was possible to retake the station-and recapture the wormhole-then it would have been done. The end will not mean freedom, not for now, but we will get to leave this prison.

Even that would be welcome.

Worf is waiting in line for water, and Ezri is curled up in my lap. I hardly notice when she asks, it is so quiet.

"Do you think he had another vision, like with Ba'Halla. He was right then."

There are many things not to talk about, friends probably dead, family that is missing, but most of all we avoid talking about *him*.

"Must of been. Remember, I wasn't here then," I remind her. The changeling saved the Captain's life then, ended the visions. It still hurts a little that nobody noticed.

"I wasn't exactly here either," she adds. "But you see the point."

I'm not listening. I'm sitting on the little cot, listening in horror as Martok explains how he was kidnaped two years before, how he fears what his duplicate has done. It's slowly dawning on me that somewhere is another Dr. Bashir, and nobody will know the difference. But I don't want her to get started on that.

"He ran out on us, is that the point? Just like he abandoned me, like he made me sign over poison for some slimy deal with Garak. He didn't care. He does what he wants to."

"No," she says, insistent. "He wanted to stay. There was something he had to do on Bajor, something that mattered more than the war and the Dominion and even losing the battle. Somewhere down there was his destiny."

"Was?" I ask her, suddenly curious.

"He's done with it now. He won't be coming back."

"Back from where?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I had a dream, all white around me, like the orb visions. But he was there, and it was really Benjamin. He was different, like he could see things we are denied."

"I don't suppose he was going to help us," I grumble.

"He's too much in awe of this new reality, all the new things he sees. Our problems are insignificant now. He'll come back some time, now or before, but not the Captain we knew."

"He's dead to us now," I say, wishing she'd leave the whole subject alone.

"Or not born. Benjamin's life has never been linear, but now he isn't even confined to living it as it was."

"Good, maybe he'll leave us alone." But around me are the grey walls of Barracks 6, and Martok is limping in from "practice". Tain, wheezing, is reluctantly helped to his bunk. He's almost done with the transmitter but he'll never know if it brings rescue. What if it hadn't? Might I still be rotting in the rocky prison, or would they have found better uses for all of us?

"Julian," she repeats, since I didn't hear her first attempt to reach me. "Before Worf gets back."

"What about him," I ask, remembering bandaging his battered body as well.

"He's given up. He's going to die in battle, even if it's just a guard. I'll miss him."

"He had to surrender the station. It was a big disgrace to him. Honor matters a lot to Worf, even more than it does . . . to Martok." It occurs to me that Martok is likely dead by now. We heard reports of massive damage to his ship before we escaped capture over Cardassia.

Martok had been fighting the Jem'Hadar for two years, just trying to keep from being hurt too badly at the end. Worf would never have made it that long, even if he wasn't keeping them busy for Garak.

She's probably right. For a second, she's wearing a pensive look, her hand playing with an invisible ponytail. Then she moves her hand, looking at it oddly and shaking her head. "When you brought him back he was in pretty bad shape. He might have been dead by then without your escape." She starts playing with her ponytail again, and I try not to notice. "But that's just Worf. So much to prove to himself."

I remember the way he pretended not to hurt so badly he could hardly stand, how he'd lie that binding his ribs was fine. He never was a very good liar.

"Your turn," he says as he steps to his spot and sits, staring ahead.

We don't all go at the same time. The space would be gone by the time we were done. Spots along the wall, with something to lean against, are rather prized.

Ezri yawns and gets to her feet, rubbing her stiff legs. "I guess you two are next," she says, looking at Miles. Miles doesn't get up for water very often, and I take him along when it's my turn.

Worf doesn't look at me, staring at the door, a resigned look in his eyes. He waits until I'm looking at him, speaking softly. "I will not be made into a slave again."

"I understand." I don't want to admit it. I don't want another friend/crewman to die. But I can't lie to him. Before, all of us had been imprisoned, occasionally beaten, questioned, and some-I remember the footsteps pacing near me, bound on the floor, and the sounds as the other prisoner was beaten to death instead-some of us were simply destroyed. I shutter, involuntarily, filled with dread. It was a secret I kept, telling neither Starfleet, Sloan, nor Ezri. But Worf was there long enough to know of the rumors, of that and other, worse things.

He confirms it. "Martok was drunk one night. He said they'd killed someone as special punishment. They didn't know if it was you until they let you out of isolation. I thought you would understand." He looks towards Ezri. "You have never told her?"

"Nobody. Right after that I went in the box. It took a long time to sort out what was real. They'd ask too many questions. I'd have to remember." I watch as Ezri stands in the line, almost as if it was for lunch at the replimat. "I have to take care of her," I tell him.

"She is strong. Do not doubt her." He looks fondly at her. "I will miss her."

"She's needs you. She's being reckless." I try to find some reason for him to stay alive, but then, he and Martok were *used* by them, forced to live with constant battering. We both know it will be worse this time.

"She is your mate," says Worf. "She has chosen. You owe her a debt I cannot fulfill."

"And you are her friend. I have a feeling there won't be many left in a while." I look at him, finally finishing the last of his rations. "Stay with us. Sometimes it's honorable not to die too."

"I will not speak of this again," he says. "Do not tell her of my intentions."

There's nothing I can do to change his mind. He would have let the Jem'Hadar kill him in the ring rather than go on like Martok before, and now he believes he has committed a greater disgrace.

"I'll keep it to myself." I look at him, leaning back against the wall, finally at peace with himself. I don't have to tell Ezri. I hope she finds a way to say good bye before it's over.

"She knows," says Worf, looking up at her. "Perhaps she'll continue to try to talk me out of it. It would give her something to do." He looks at me, his face grim. "When this time is done, *you* will have to put up with her questions."

All I can think of, given that all of us could easily be executed for the escapes, is the fervent hope that she has that chance.

end, Part 1, Chapter 1 of Surrender

Acknowledgments

This story was a year in the works, and underwent numerous rewrites. I'd like to than Victoria Meridith, Matt Edwards, and Meghan Elizabeth for their help and suggestions. I also wish to thank Morgan Stuart, Carolyn Conley, Arne, and Sarah for their final beta reading of the finished draft and suggestions. It was posted on ASC in 2001.

And especially, I'd want to thank Paula Stiles, super beta reader and unpaid, unofficial editor. She has patiently read numerous versions of this story over the year it took to write it, given wonderful advise and suggestions, and most certainly helped shape the final product. She has reviewed, edited and occasionally vetoed experimental scenes, made important plot suggestions, and helped with background here and there. If you like this story, you should also give her credit for helping to sharpen and define what was a good story into a far better one.

I'd like to thank the author of Three Came Home, Agnes Newton Keith for the writing of her memories as a prisoner of the Japanese during World War 2 on the island of Borneo, a wonderfully evocative glimpse of life in captivity for ordinary civilians, which I credit with creating my interest in how people at the middle of it see our history. Her's is an extraordinary book and is fascinating to read if you want a slice of real history.

I'd also like to thank Gabrielle Lawson for writing Oswiecm, and discussing her research into personal recollections, which led to a shelf full of people's memoirs of their own survival, all of which helped create the mood in Surrender.

This is a sister story to my other novel in the process of being posted called Legacy, an AU of the Dominion war. In this, the loss is far more profound but the nature of the decisions no different in the end. If you have read that story you will notice many of the original characters also appear in this one. The terraforming process developed in that story is also a major element of the lives or the survivors of the taking of the station in this alternate version of the war. This one, however, is told from the point of view of those on the bottom.


	2. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 2

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Chapter 2

Light. Bright light spills into the room, blinding everyone. It's been ten feedings-an unknown number of days-since the first rations. We figure there are about 140 people in here. Some of them are sick, a few died and were hauled out with the water. People cough and talk in whispers. The last few feedings have been very meager, the prisoner with the box being careful not to drop anything more than he is allowed. But it helps that we've been dividing up the food since the second feeding. It's made us feel a little less like trapped rats.

Time and days have lost their meaning. We eat when they feed us, and most people sleep in-between. It dulls the constant hunger a little.

Nobody has the energy for much else.

Ezri hasn't said much since the food got so scarce. She mostly sleeps, like the rest. Everything about this hell of a life has become like a bad dream, and eventually we'll wake up into the nightmare.

There has been too little food to ever forget the hunger, and when awake most people stare at the door, waiting for more to eat. Conversation is hard, not thinking of things that don't remind you of food. When I sleep, I dream about my lunches with Garak. He's probably dead by now. But all I remember of my dreams is the food. Most of the time Ezri and I curl close, her small body in my arms, and we keep each other warm.

Miles presses close for warmth, and sometimes the three of us curl together, but he usually stares at the floor, making motions with his hands. When I take him for water he calls me Ee'Char and I answer that way. Not a pleasant illusion, but better than wondering if your family is crammed into another room where the prisoners don't leave much food. He hasn't spoken to me or Ee'Char for a little while, and my few attempts to draw him out have been ignored. I hope he will talk later-if there is a later. But sometimes he cries.

It's been too long for there to be much hope of rescue, at least any time soon. Whatever they plan, we'll have to live with it. I tell myself that somehow the Federation is still fighting the war, that somehow the depleted fleet will win and there will be an end to this. I grasp this hope like the distant beacon of a lighthouse to a ship lost at sea.

Each time they shove open the door, the light is very painful and Ezri buries her face in my chest. I try to block it with my hand, but it doesn't help enough. The longer we are kept in this darkness the worse the pain.

But this time, there has been nothing thrown to the animals yet. They are standing there with the doors open and the horrible light driving us back.

This time it's Jem'Hadar, a few Breen thrown in, with rifles held at ready. No skiddish prisoner with food is in evidence.

I can't tell if I'm afraid or relieved that something different will happen. Miles slides closer, more alert than he's been in days. Ezri straightens a little, sitting on my lap.

Worf looks relieved, almost happy and excited.

They are moving towards us. "Up," barks the Jem'Hadar in front.

We push ourselves up on shaky legs, helping support each other, moving slowly, hugging the wall for support. As we approach the door, near the water, the guards begin grabbing people and pulling them out. I hold Ezri again and this time she grips me just as tightly. The light is too bright and hurts too much, and we stumble ahead blindly in the shimmering haze.

She's pulling back, away from the guards. I drag her forward into the pool of burning light.

"I will not be a slave!" declares a familiar voice, and Ezri tries to get away.

There is a fight. Several thuds indicate someone falling hard on the deck, Worf or the Jem'Hadar it isn't certain. But then there is rifle fire, sudden and final, and a last thump. The crowd freezes, unable to see in the bright light.

"Resist and you join him," yells one of the guards. Nobody takes him up on the offer.

Most of the people in this room have never faced anything like this and are terrified. I can't get Internment Camp 371 out of my head-and it was luxury next to this hell. Ezri, for all her lives, has not lived through this kind of nightmare.

She stops pulling, and suddenly leans against me. I wrap my arms around her, holding her upright. When she stands on her own, she is very passive, letting me pull her with me as we're swept forward.

Someone grabs my arm. Ezri and I stumble forward, both concentrating on staying together.

"Hurry up," orders the guard, through a Breen translator.

Ezri tenses, and a second later I know why as I'm grazed by the prod. For a moment I go numb, then the jolt of pain hits. Forcing stiff legs to move, we stumble forward into an agonizing bright fuzz, the pain from the light almost as bad as the charge of the prod. I can make out nothing in the glare, and close my eyes to the bright light which still shines through my eyelids. The only thing I allow myself to think about is Ezri's hand gripping my wrist.

We're back in the corridor, the air a little fresher, the light now tortuously bright. We're shoved back the way we'd come originally. We stumble blindly forward as the Breen prods convince any stragglers to hurry.

We stop, abruptly crammed against each other. She still has my hand. It's still fully bright here, and even with eyes closed my head hurts. We shuffle along until she's closer to me, and I put my arm around her. She presses against me, every muscle taunt. I am desperately afraid of losing her in this crowd.

Now we wait. The light hurts our heads, but the press of bodies is warm. From time to time we're pushed forward. Finally, after an eternity, someone shoves us into another room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a door locking.

o0o

We are locked inside a box, trapped in the absolute dark. Outside is light that is too painful, Jem'Hadar that would shoot us and Breen that would torture us. I don't know what happened to Miles, but I still have Ezri. We have room to move around, but we will not let go of each other. She holds me as if we release our hold we'll still lose each other, as if we will drown in a sea of bodies alone.

She knew what Worf was going to do. She probably thought she could cope with it. But sometimes she's wrong. I don't know how many people have died since the attack and surrender. All I know is the first death we felt so personally was his.

We can hear noise, the box not sealed, but the Jem'Hadar and Breen with their little rods are outside the door, locked away from us. I remember the Breen that helped save me when we'd escaped from the camp. I remember the jolt of their prod. I wonder what else will be different.

Whatever is to come will be soon. We sit, entwined in each other. I hold Ezri in a kind of death grip, both of us afraid that's what it will become. Nobody says a word. They are undoubtedly listening. But I don't want to leave this place, this dark safety.

We have no warning when the door is opened, this one sliding apart silently. Bright light floods the room and we are once again blinded. They don't make us stand, just drag us out of the box. Reluctant to leave, I hold Ezri tight and she pushes herself against me too. But they pull her away from me.

I grasp her hand, trying to pull her back. She fights just as hard, but a sudden yank and I almost fall, jerked back by the arm.

I should be stronger, but how long has it been since we've had enough to eat? I think of Miles desperately clinging to his vision of Ee'Char to make his loss tolerable. I have no escape from the pain. Maybe we didn't know each other so well before, but in the . . . weeks? since this began, she's my whole world. They can't take it away.

All I can think of is losing her as her hand is pulled off mine with the help of a painful jolt at the wrist. I try to lunge away, somehow get her back, but a probe suddenly grazes my spine and I nearly collapse, the guard jerking me along. Numb, I let them drag me, blinded by the light and the pain and the fear. We had so little time together. If only I hadn't hesitated so long, taken so much time to tell her how deeply I wanted to be with her. If only we'd known there was no time for games.

I understand why Worf did not want to live. Without Ezri, I don't particularly care one way or the other.

I am pushed into a room. "Undress," says the Breen. My uniform is filthy but it's the last piece of my life they haven't taken. I hesitate until I hear the telltale charge of the prod, hurriedly undressing, throwing my uniform onto the floor. I stand in the room naked, blinded by bright light, unwilling to visualize any of this in my mind.

"Respond when tapped," orders the guard.

"State your name," says the voice. Vorta, from the intonations, but not Weyoun.

"Ezri Dax," she says. Her voice is steady and even. I hadn't known she was in the room, how many of us stand here naked to be examined like animals. But she'd been so afraid before. Did she see me in the bright light? Did I make a sound I wasn't aware of? I don't care about the rest, not now, just that she is here. But . . . odd the way she said, "Ezri".

After a light tap, I give my own name, minus the doctor or the rank. The three others follow suit. I don't know any of them.

It is the longest moment of my life.

"Your position on the station," he continues.

We each give our rank, where there was one, and state what we did before we became their property. I tell them I was chief medical officer. Ezri says she was a counselor, no hesitation in her voice, no uncertainty about her identity. Two of the others were in engineering. The last one is a civilian.

Now that they know who we are, I'm certain we'll be executed. I don't want to remember this as the last moment I might share with Ezri.

The Vorta then asks the civilian a question. "Your wife, what position did she hold? Is she alive?"

Why does the Vorta care? I can't get my mind off Ezri. I can't see her but can feel her standing so near, yet so far away. I promised we'd not be separated. But the only choice that matters here is his.

The civilian says she was Ops. He didn't know what had happened to her. He gives her name. He stumbles over the words.

The Vorta asks the rest of us the same question, what family do we have and are they alive. He is taking some kind of notes.

I'm questioned first. I say Ezri is my wife, that we'd made plans. I don't know why, perhaps out of desperation. I sense it matters.

"You'll be listed as married," he says.

Stunned, I almost drop the things as something is pushed into my hands, clothes of some sort. They are either grey or blue, I can't tell with the bright fuzz. I dress. I feel a little better that way.

"Hold them for now," says the Vorta.

Nobody needs any encouragement to hurry. I just want to be back in a locked room where nobody can touch us again. We feel our way down a cold hallway to another cell, this one dark but not pitch black. I can see a little as the door closes and she sits next to me.

Her eyes ask the question. I answer it with a kiss. I don't know if we would have married, should the war have ended better, but that moment is our proposal, acceptance, and marriage. I hold her, taking all the comfort I can from not being alone.

o0o

Ezri is dozing, but I can't sleep. I stare at the gloomy light, wondering what gave me the sudden inspiration to claim her as my wife-to-be. What have I done? When they dispose of us, will she go where I do now? If it were anyone other than the Dominion, I might count on having some value. The Mexicans saved the doctors at Goliad to treat their own, while executing all the rest of Fannon's men. But these creatures do not allow medical treatment of prisoners. I am less use to them than the most junior of Miles crew.

And if they do want me as a doctor, will I be made to treat them? I saved the Vorta when we crashed, during the war, after destroying the white supply depot. I still remember the way the Jem'Hadar watched as I operated, hoping they would not choose to end the operation prematurely by killing the doctor.

We've seen the Jem'Hadar First execute his Vorta, and the same one I saved betray his own soldiers. And yet, within the Dominion each has a purpose. What will ours be? They took a lot of prisoners during the war. I doubt they just locked them up like those of us at Internment Camp 371. So much has changed. They were eradicating the Cardassians the last we knew. What exactly is planned for us?

What skills make one useful to them? Is Jake in one of these little rooms? Kasidy? Is being family to the Emmisary enough this time?

But there is noise, and the door slides open. The bright light wakes up Ezri and she stares groggily at the fuzzy shadow that pushes a box inside our cell. Then the lights disappear again as the door closes.

One of the others is there first. "There's a lot of rations here," he says, amazed and excited. He starts passing them out, and we each get three bars all to ourselves.

Three bars counts as a feast now. My grumbling stomach no longer associates them with Deyos and his mercurial power. All I can think of is how full I feel.

"Maybe we're okay," says a young woman, sitting close to the civilian from my interrogation. "They must have a reason to give us all this food."

Nobody makes any comments, aware the walls have ears, but just the same we feel a little better about our future. Then, later, a second box appears with three more bars per prisoner. It's been weeks since we've had that much to eat, and everyone feels slightly ill by the time we're finished.

But we do not complain. We'll take whatever crumbs they give, and even be grateful for it. We wait, not knowing what we are waiting for.

Perhaps a few hours later, still full but feeling better, the door opens again and a voice coming from the haze orders us to get up and out.

We straggle through the door, wary, and yet less concerned than before. We've had days worth of food in one. It has to mean something.

The guards order us lined up against the walls, not just those from our cell but a lot of others. Ezri is next to me, but we don't touch except for a little squeeze of her hand. I'm afraid to take it in mine standing here with all the guards, not knowing if they approve. If we're to be lucky, I dare not ruin that luck. If not, perhaps Worf was right.

The light is still too bright and we can see very little, but hear as the guards move towards us. They begin calling names. Ezri and I are among the first called, along with the civilian and the young woman, apparently his wife. The rest of us in the cell are called too, along with family.

We step forward into a second line and wait.

I stand, wondering what this means, especially to those they don't choose to call, as our group grows bigger. I hear Miles name, listening for Keiko and the children, but hear only his. I recognize a few people from Miles crew. I'd recently confirmed Jackson's wife was pregnant, though neither she nor the other children were called. Scalman had been treated for an injury recently, and he is luckier. He has his family with him. A lot of the people called have families with them. I can feel Ezri touch my hand, just a little. It will be harder for those without with so many reminders of what was lost.

Eventually they finish, the hall still too full of people, and the second line is ordered to move. We file slowly after one another now, numb from some mixture of fear and relief, not pushed in a crush, feeling the wall as we can't see in the light.

At the end of the walk is another locked room. This one is smaller than the open bay but larger than the little cell. The light is dim, but doesn't hurt. We have room to move around. Nobody says a word until the door closes.

We take a count. There are fifteen people in the room. Everyone but Miles and Jackson is with family, though I don't know the others well enough to tell if everyone is there. Scalman and his wife hold onto their children, and the others sit down by the wall, keeping close to each other. The woman from Ops and her civilian husband are still with us, but I don't know them. We can see a little, and look each other over, both worried and relieved.

Miles ignores everyone, feigning off my attempt at a reunion. He just stares at the door, away from the others. Neither he nor Jackson look at one another. I wish I could find the right words to say, but if it was me and Ezri was missing I doubt any would help. The rest just leave them alone, lost somewhere between grief and hope. But Jackson keeps looking at the children.

A while later, the door slides open and another box is pushed inside, it closing immediately. Eagerly, we nearly tear it open, expecting more rations. But this time it is better. It's full of blankets. Each of us claims one, wrapping it around ourselves, and three remain. Abruptly, Miles takes the extras, cradling the blankets tenderly in his arms. He keeps mumbling something too quiet to hear. But we all know what he's thinking. Why would there be more blankets than prisoners? Why too few for all of the missing family?

There has been no conversation. We dare not guess where this room will lead, what particular value we hold the others did not. We watch the door, hoping for food and, after the blankets, some other luxury.

All but Jackson. He is very still, his head back, eyes closed tightly. He hasn't warmed himself with his blanket. He's just clutching it in his hand.

Miles looks peaceful, the extra blankets in the crook of his arm as if they were a baby. I won't ask him, wouldn't break the silence, but he's too peaceful now. Either he will get back his family, or believes he will. But what sort of promises did he make? Looking at Jackson, lost in a desperation he can not share, I am certain he would have promised anything to have Cheryl and the children.

I suspect, given different circumstances, that he is not alone.

Dragging worse than before, more undefined time passes. Another box of rations, again three per person, and we gorge ourselves. Miles looks a little better, but he never lets go of the three blankets. Jackson takes the food, but eats it without noticing what he is doing. Ezri has fallen asleep after all the food, and I keep watching him. What sort of hell is he lost in, grasping for hope when he has no right to have any? As the hunger fades a little, less demanding now, we can think of more than food. We're all aware that very few of us were called to the second line. What became of the rest?

We try not to think of that. For some reason, we are given blankets and food that makes this place feel like luxury. What makes us special? Did they pick a few Cardassians to save before they killed off the rest?

Scalman's wife Tina distracts us briefly by pulling the blanket out of Jackson's grip and wrapping it around him. He takes her hand, and she takes him in her arms. Scalman moves, he and his wife on either side of Jackson, as he holds him protectively.

Miles never lets go of the blankets. I only hope he knows more than he's willing to say and isn't just lost. But I won't interfere and won't let Ezri bother him either.

Not that Ezri has said much since Worf died. She watches, as if a distant observer, but it's almost as she really isn't here.

Maybe it's her way of coping. Nobody can really deal with why we are here, where the rest were sent, not now. Too many friends, too many people we care about are missing. After they dim the light in an artificial night, we all fall asleep wrapped in our blankets.

Everyone is sleeping when a noise startles us awake. It's still "night" but the door is open and a flash of the bright light fills the room as the guards push someone inside, a woman and children.

Jackson looks at them, a hope so intense he nearly hurts his head as he sits up. Then, just as quickly, he crumples into Tina's lap, her hand soothing his shaking form.

Keiko stands in the middle of the cell, Molly gripping her hand and Yoshi in her arms. Stunned, silent, she starts to move slowly towards Miles. Wordlessly, she collapses into his arms. They hold each other and their children, bundled in the extra blankets. It grows quiet again, and everyone sleeps.

o0o

We awaken to light, not bright, but brighter than the "day" before. Keiko is dressed in the same clothes as we are, the children in a smaller version of the same thing. Miles is curled up with them, the children tangled together with the parents. She just looks at us, saying nothing.

Jackson watches the children for a few moments and looks away again. Scalman's children are staying close to their parents, and he puts his arm around them.

Everyone but Keiko watches with anticipation as the door slides open. The box of rations has enough for everyone again, and she and the children lose no time in eating theirs. The rest of us, the desperation sated a little, take more time with our food. Miles whispered conversation with her brings silence in the room, but he's being too quiet to hear. Nobody asks, despite intense curiosity over where she'd been. I wonder how we'll feel when she decides to talk. Lost in the mystery of our fate, nobody says much at all.

The long, worrisome day drags on, everyone waiting for the next box of food. The boxes have been scavenged already, pieces having become small toys for the children and the parts of a game for the adults. The children have found each other, Scalman's six year old daughter Tricia playing dolls with Molly. The three year old boy wanders back and forth from his sister to his parents.

Sometimes Jackson holds him. The little boy has taken a nap in his lap. Carl is holding very still so as not to disturb him, always on the verge of open grief, but holding it back just enough to go on.

We decide to exchange names, for those willing to talk.

Townsend looks up, his eyes half focused, alone with his son, almost twelve. The boy's face is puffy, as if he'd been hurt recently. Ralph explains, quietly, as if he was talking about someone else, "Ralph Townsend," he says, then adds very calmly, "My wife is dead. There was an explosion," he says and stops.

The boys wounds are half-treated burns. He must have been with his mother. He wears no expression at all.

"Realand, I was working on communications. My wife Cassie and my step-daughter Marta," offers an older-looking man, his daughter sitting between he and his wife. She's perhaps fourteen, but not entirely human, her face carrying an exotic beauty even in this dingy place. She does not look up, sitting quietly with her hands folded together, a deep sadness in her eyes.

I introduce myself, Ezri giving her name too quietly. Miles mumbles his name and those of his family, but ignores us afterwards. Scalman quietly takes his turn, giving Carl Jackson's name for him. The woman and her civilian husband are Brenda and Jason Harwell.

Everybody is quiet again. Jackson is crying now, Tina just holding him. If there were no blankets provided, there is little hope of them being alive. But he can't say good bye, not yet. In a way, Townsend is lucky. He's free to grieve. Carl is just caught on it's knife's edge.

Eventually, they darken the room again, and we have "night". The last thing I remember thinking as I fall asleep is there must be a good reason they're going to all this trouble, that we must be lucky.

Then we know how fortunate we are to be useful. It's still the middle of the night, but Keiko suddenly begins to talk, everyone waking quickly. Her voice quiet, with no inflection at all, she almost whispers the words.

"They put the rest on a ship. We were told we were being sent to Cardassia. They plan to strip it bare and use us to do it. They already killed all the Cardassians."

During the battle over Cardassia we saw the reports of what was happening on the surface. We could guess . . . But it is still unbelievable that they had wiped out a whole species just for defying them. Silence follows, each of us aware that we are very lucky people, that we may have been allowed to survive.

But it is also a warning. I think of the blight. Perhaps for the Cardassians to die quickly instead of a little at a time is easier. And what of Earth, and the other places that are going to resist until there is no other option but surrender?

Eventually Brenda asks, rather faintly, "All the Cardassians?"

"We were told," says Keiko. "I don't want to know if it's true." She pauses, looking at Miles. "I think they were looking for us but had the wrong name. The ship was ready to leave when we were pulled off and brought here."

Jackson looks at her, a desperate hope in his voice. "Did . . . did you see my wife at all? My children?"

Keiko still speaks with no expression, but her eyes are full of relief. "I had these two with me when we, when they took us. Before they put us on the ship we tried to find our children, and I guess if we'd known we might have just claimed all of them."

Complete silence has filled the room. Everyone is watching Jackson as he stares at her in horror. "What happened to them?" he asks.

"Nobody knows. They just took them away." She looks at Carl, almost sorry. "Maybe Cheryl will find them if they go on the same ship."

But he does not hear that part. He collapses back against Scalman and his wife, just staring, no longer sobbing.

Tina says quietly, "Leave him alone now." He rolls towards them, and she holds him again.

Nobody dares put it into words, but why us? Each of these people had important jobs on the station, and except for Jackson their families have been spared. They must have picked and chosen carefully among their captives. We are of some special use. With the families they have hostages.

Miles breaks the silence. "They let me pick nine people to keep. I picked them for ability. I couldn't choose any other way."

"Thank you," says Scalman, very hesitantly.

"See if you do in six months," answers Miles, his voice dragging.

Ezri buries her head in my shoulder, and we hold each other. After the certainty that we'd die together, I can't allow myself to think of how we'll live.

"It's not Cardassia," says Keiko, quietly. Reminded of our luck, we drop the subject, hoping luck is the right word.

o0o

If the artificial days are correct, we've been locked in this room for almost five days. The box of rations arrives twice a day, always with three each. Even Miles children have stopped gobbling them down. We take as much time as we can to eat now. There is nothing else to do but sleep, and it's easier at "night".

I can't think of missing friends anymore. It's easier to think of the ones on the ships as strangers.

I'm only vaguely aware we all need to wash, that my face is covered with a deepening layer of beard. Men are starting to scratch themselves at night, trying to stop the itching. Most simply try to pretend it was always this way.

The boxes have been used to make things that help pass the time, but really nothing will do that. We are in transit, waiting for the unknown. There is too much that is impossible to talk about. I can't think about what is going on out there, beyond the station. Is the war already over? Have our people been overrun, or are they still fighting. I can't tell how long it's been, but I know the Klingons would never surrender. The Federation? I thought I knew. I almost hope they do. But I doubt it.

We don't talk about that, about how little it matters to us how the war is going if our side doesn't win soon, about how the Federation officially declared the missing as dead within months. Did they have some inside information we weren't allowed to know?

For us, it could be worse. Most of the people captured with us will spend the next months cleaning up dead Cardassians. Some of them might live long enough to end up with us someday. It is a tiny hope that friends might live that keeps us going.

We try to talk, but it hurts too much to remember old friends now dead or gone. We don't deal with the future. Mostly we listen for sounds, any sounds, and try to guess what they mean. We don't speak of the questions with no answers, or our fears and anticipation of what might come when they open the door.

Ezri talks now and then, thoughts that come out of nowhere. She still isn't here. She eats and sleeps with the rest of us, pays attention to sounds, but it is as if there is a wall between us.

We've just been fed, and she's gnawing on her last bar, her expression thoughtful. "Worf hated these. He told me once when the Breen had us. When they said we'd be turned over to the Dominion he complained they'd quit giving us the algie, make us eat this stuff. Maybe that is why he let them kill him."

I just stare at her. I wonder if she even *sees* this room. "He wanted to die with his version of honor," I say, wondering if she'll hear.

She stares straight ahead, almost at me but . . . not quite. "He always was worried about that. Jadzia used to tease him about it."

Who am I talking to? I've never "seen" Ezri as a patient, but she'd tried now and again to draw something out of me. It almost sounds like she is lost in that part of herself, safe from all that's going on.

"We all did," I tell her, hoping she'll give me some clue.

Then the dreamy look vanishes, and her eyes are grim. "He did what he had to. Maybe he knew something we don't."

She's looking at Jackson, sitting back with his eyes closed, eating a ration bar in silence. If anyone could help him, maybe she could. But what would she say, what sort of hope could she hold out without telling a lie?

Carl hasn't said a word since Keiko told us about the children. He eats, he sleeps, and stares at the other children in the cell, but never looks at anyone else. I'm afraid for him. When we get to the part where we find out what they want of us, will Carl even be capable of doing it?

I keep asking myself what they want of me. I can see why some of them were spared the hell the rest have been sentenced to. The station was heavily damaged, and Miles and his Ops people have the specialized knowledge of how to keep the hybrid Cardassian/Bajoran/Federation systems functioning. That accounts for most of us. The others have a reasonable function on the station as well.

But I am a doctor and they don't allow medical treatment. They let Tain die at the internment camp. They killed all the wounded this time. What use is a doctor under those circumstances?

Most of our friends have been shipped off to probably die on Cardassia. How do we justify our cooperation? Or do we let them send our families off to harvesting the dead and tell ourselves that nobody can accuse us of collaboration?

Sometimes I want to stay here, guards safely on the other side of the door. But each time it's opened to feed us we expect it to be over, and each bite of our rations is a reminder of what we are to them. There is nothing to do and we often retreat to sleep. But each time we hear a sound near our cage we wake with a start, certain the door will open and we'll be dragged out to face whatever future they have made for us.

I need answers. We all have to know why we're here. No matter what lies on the other side, we have to get out of this cage before we all end up like Carl. If they are watching, it should be plain that it's time. They have already robbed us of home and possessions, and now take the rest. We accept their crumbs without complaint. Now, we almost look forward to their choice of our future, for it has to be better than this.

Our main distraction are the children, making use of the scraps of boxes for toys. We marvel at how their minds can transcend this place, even after the cargo pens. They are our entertainment, along with a few games made of box scraps. It helps pass the time when we have too much of it.

And there are stories, all carefully culled from our childhoods before war and death colored their memories.

"My father was so relieved we had a special dinner, all my favorite foods, but he wouldn't let me out of the house for a week until my friend went home." Brenda, telling us about her great adventure lost with a friend when she was seven.

People glance at Molly, almost the same age. We don't let ourselves think of the lives our own children may lead in their world.

There are so many things left unsaid. We hope that the war will end with our liberation, but it is impossible to forget the battle above Cardassia. It was a devastating defeat. It's hard to hope when you know how bad things were at the end. How long do we wait before we give up? After they let us out of here, will we hear any news? Will we be able to believe it if we do?

The carnage in the Cardassian sky was almost our last hope of victory. Was there enough left behind to keep fighting, or is its legacy debris and slavery. What is left to fight with? Where is the seed of hope that victory might come at the end?

If the Dominion wins will they let us go home? We can't forget the fate of the Cardassians. If the Federation keeps fighting, will there even be a home?

o0o

For once, everyone is wide awake. Rations are late. There has been very little noise, and it's always very busy before we're fed. In this dreary nothingness, even meals supplied by guards have become extraordinarily important.

Then, everyone tense, comes the sound of feet, too many of them. The door slides open but no box is shoved inside. A lot of guards, both Jem'Hadar and Breen, wait outside the door.

"Out," says the head guard, adding a gruff "Now," when we don't move instantly.

Grabbing blankets and the small things we've made, we stand very cautiously, careful not to hesitate. Slowly, with a mixture of nerves and expectation, we move into the corridor. It's still bright, but we can see reasonable well now. Ezri and I hold our blankets along with each other. Miles and Keiko carry the children. Scalman and his wife have their hands full with the children and Jackson, keeping him moving although he doesn't seem to care. The others follow in a bunch, keeping close.

We take care to keep away from the guards. They have the prods, all of them. We move when they say to go.

We're herded towards a turbolift and pushed inside. Those with children are allowed ahead. Jackson is cornered between the Scalmans, keeping him moving. He's given up. How many of the rest might give up, too, if they were left alone.

We look up, nervous, as it rises to the habitat ring. Filing off slowly, we wait where other guards point us to go. As we wait, silent and apprehensive, others are brought up on the turbolift. Where we are standing, it's hard to see any difference from when it was our station.

Among them are others like Jackson, looking absolutely lost. But as we wait, the turbolift arrives with a haggard looking group of women, looking much worse than the rest.

Carl looks up, seeing her. Scalman tries to block him from moving, not trusting the guards, but Carl shoves his way past us, eyes locked on his wife. He ignores both us and the guards as he reaches her, falling into her arms.

At least he found Cheryl. There are a lot of people in the way, and she looks dirty and tired, but otherwise well enough. Maybe her child will have a chance to be born after all.

Carl doesn't move as people crowd around them, too absorbed in his relief. Miles watches with worry, holding Molly closer. I think I understand. The Jackson children are still missing.

Jackson isn't alone. Other men from other turbolift loads push their way towards the women, still looking a little dazed. Whatever awaits us, it is immaterial to them now. Miles kisses his daughter, and I wonder how he would have managed the last week without them. The first reunions complete, the other women begin drifting towards the others, pushing their way towards men who could not see them before. Nobody shouts, the guards too visible, but a silent relief fills the space where despair had lived before.

At least, for some. No children have appeared, and it is obvious that some of the newly reunited are still not whole. Carl and Cheryl, holding on tightly to each other, are searching the crowd.

It's taking a long time for all of us to be assembled. There are a lot of guards but they don't seem to care if we move around. Nobody would get far enough to matter if they tried to escape, anyway.

I still can't get over how much it looks like the place we left, what, months before?

But we soon discover just how different a place it this has become. The guards move closer and we keep away from them and their prods. A short walk past the main corridor and we see it.

There is a gate, locked and guarded, and we stop in front of it.

Then the guards part and a group of children, small and large, pushed together, rushes towards us.

Carl moves instantly, he and Cheryl wrapping arms around Jeffrey and Calla. Jeffrey, seven, has his two year old sister in his arms. For a moment he pulls back, stiffly, as his parents find them again.

The gate opens with a squeal, and we are pushed inside. Ezri and I walk in slowly, both nervous and relieved. Others, especially those newly reunited with family, are shoved along until everyone is inside. Then the gate crashes shut.

The Vorta steps near, Weyoun himself, nodding at the First. The Jem'Hadar addresses us, "This is your living area. You will be left alone if you cooperate. You may not leave unless you have a work assignment and the proper pass."

I remember Kira describing Terok Nor-the walls and guards and filth. So now we have an answer. But the questions are harder to ask.

o0o

Our new home is a barricaded corridor, with a series of subdivided and stripped quarters behind it. The corridor has become an open space, a group of tables positioned near the gate. Everything about it is plain and grey and dull, the most prominent feature the large, locked gate.

But compared to the cargo bays and little cells that came before, it is absolute luxury. Everyone is milling around, just looking, intentionally ignoring the gate.

The open space beyond it, the tables, and especially the enclosed quarters in back are far more important now. As long as we are theirs, there will always be a lock between us and freedom.

Ezri is standing by the gate, looking over the space we are allowed to claim. She's still holding her blanket, watching the people, especially Jackson and his family, sitting at a table, just holding each other. Molly and Tricia are busily exploring the place.

Miles is milling around the largest space, near the tables. I wonder if he's trying to guess where this used to be, or if he knows. Then, pausing, he finds a notice. Reading it to himself, he mumbles, "Wonder what all this costs," to me.

I'm trying not to think of that right now. I'd much rather appreciate the space and the tables and choose not to answer. He is reading the notice a second time, and I look over his shoulder. It is a list of room numbers and names. I trace down to our names. Ezri and I get one room, number 12. Miles and family get two, number 4. Jackson and his family are listed as getting two as well, along with Scalman. Tracing my finger along the list I pause on Jackson's name. "They knew where they were all the time," I say.

"Guess I was lucky," whispers Miles, shaking his head.

Most of us are standing by another wall, in a semi-circle with someone reading another notice out loud. Miles and I wander over to join them.

It is the rules that we will have to live with in this place. Some of them are quite specific, some very general. I suppose it depends on how they want to use them.

Each of us, save the youngest children, will be given a work assignment and be allowed to leave our cage. Some will get a special pass to do particular jobs, and I don't want to know what sort of rules apply to that-not yet. I suspect I'm one of the chosen few. The others will have to settle for guards. I don't know what's worse, having to work under their watchful eye, or having them "trust" you with, I assume, very bad consequences if you betray that trust.

The other rules are quite plain, clearly dominated by a theme. Anyone found to have committed sabotage will be executed. Anyone caught stealing or in an area not permitted will be executed. Anyone refusing an order will be "disciplined". I wonder if that means disappearing to Cardassia.

There are no comments about the rules. Nobody is going to care anyway. But we're overwhelmed by the private rooms, and the tables, and all the open space. If we're going to be used in any case, we might as well live a little better.

Miles keeps staring at his hands, mumbling to himself about the cost of all this. Miles and I have gone to look over our quarters and Miles is studying ours with our families still outside. I finally broach the subject. "I'll bet they want us to fix up the station, or at least you. Why else would they have asked you for names?"

"I . . . " he pauses, staring at the plain room where Ezri and I will live. "I wish they hadn't. If they'd just asked about them I'd feel better." He sits on our bed. "Then . . . then I wouldn't have sent . . . . "

I understand. I'm still afraid of what they'll ultimately want of me, still uncertain why I'm not in one of those pens heading towards Cardassia. I can't allow myself to think of the best reason. But Miles is right. Where does cooperation become treason? Where does your families survival cease to matter?

"You were ask a question," I say, quietly. "You answered it. You gave them the best people, and that's all you could do."

"I wanted my family back. He said they were alive. He didn't actually make any promises, but it was plain enough." Miles words are bitter but resigned. "I'm pretty sure any of those unfortunates they shipped out of here would have done the same if they had the chance." He looks up at me. "You did."

He means Ezri. I can't look at him. "I couldn't lose her. Not so soon . . . . "

He stands, looks me in the eyes. "Hold on to her Julian. You'll need her. We'll all need somebody."

I can't deny it. Instead I change the subject. "Well, they cleaned the place out pretty well. Nothing left that I can see." There are no replicators, or terminals or anything which might be used against them. Maybe they learned something from Tain.

Miles studies the room. "We have another little room, with a big cot but nothing else. The other room is the same as this one."

Our new home has a table and chair along with the cot-like bed set next to the wall. We've been given no other clothes but the blue, faded to grey coveralls we got before. According to the rules, if we behave, we will get a shower every week and new clothes each month. Boots will be provided for work.

The best part are the cots, and even better the pillows, two hard little lumps but after the last month it doesn't matter what they feel like. Much like the blankets, it is as if we have stepped into a haven of comfort. And we have a room to ourselves, a place to hide from the rest. Even if they watch, it could be so much worse. It's still a prison, but far better than a bare floor without even the illusion of privacy.

"Maybe the food will be better," says Miles, looking at the table. But food is served communally in the area near the gate with the tables. Breakfast will be served before we go to work and dinner after our shift is done. The posted rules do not explain how long a shift lasts. When we are not working we may do what we want, but must stay in our cage. Being out of "our" area without reason is grounds for immediate execution. Non-cooperation means our privileges will be revoked. The rules didn't say what was considered a privilege.

Someone taps at the door, and Jackson is standing there, looking a little nervous. "Uh, Doctor, . . . " he begins.

It feels like a lifetime since anyone has called me that. Miles is sitting on our cot, and I come to Jackson. He's still in shock, but better. I remember the moment I found Ezri in the crowd for a flash, how intense the relief had been. What if I'd never found her, would she be gone?

"How are they?" I skip the fake words of comfort.

"Real tired. Cheryl didn't get much to eat, and she, she won't say much about the way it was. They only took her out of the holds below a few hours ago." He pauses, looking around. "She didn't know anything about the kids until they showed up here."

I glance at Miles, looking away. Is he grateful that his children were spared that special hell, or has he banished the thought?

"How are they?" I ask in my professional voice, though from what I saw, Ezri could probably be of more help, if she can help anyone now.

There are tears in his eyes. "Alive," he says. "What else, I don't know. But Cheryl is pregnant, ugh, could you look her over?"

I don't look forward to this, not seeing Jeffrey. I keep remembering the lost, distant look in his eyes I'd seen when they were sitting at the tables. I hope in time it disappears and a little boy is still there. But I like being able to help them, even if all I can do is check Cheryl's condition. "Are you in your quarters?"

"Yes," he says, quietly, defeated.

"I'll come with you," I offer, as Miles stands.

"I'd like to get Molly to sleep," he says, Jackson moving back so he can leave.

The interior of Jackson's quarters is identical to ours, except for the smaller room. Cheryl is lying down, staring at the wall.

She looks thin, but not too bad off. "I'm going to feel for the baby," I explain, as she rolls over.

I can't do much, but she hasn't lost it so food should help. She's borderline malnourished, but if we're fed as much as we have been she'll recover from that. I hope the baby she carries will as well.

"I was so afraid I'd lose her," she says, closing her eyes. "They didn't know about her and I was afraid to tell them." My exam done, she rolls to her side, away from view. "Then, then they said where we'd be going and I almost hoped I would." Touching the added walls of their quarters, one being an original, she says very quietly, "not that this will be too good, but . . . "

I nod at Carl, going to comfort his wife. Or just be with her. For now, that's enough.

In the other room, I can see Jeffrey curled up tight with Calla, holding her protectively with his arm. Even asleep, he's tense, ready to fight.

He is no longer a child. He isn't asleep, looking back at me with the wary eyes of a threatened animal. Calla is sleeping, pulled back in the protective cage of her brothers arms. I pity Carl. He thought he'd found his children.

I leave, taking my time as I go to get Ezri. She greets me with a smile this time, all the distance vanished. "Making a late house call?" she asks.

"Sort of," I mumble. "We have a bed. And pillows. Want to try them?"

She pauses, resisting as I take her hand. "Too bad Worf gave up too soon," she says, and puts her arms around me. "Well, let's go home."

We don't hurry. It makes the space feel bigger if you walk slowly. But this is all the world we have now.

Despite the walls and the cots and the pillows, this is still a prison. We still belong to them, and Weyoun can control us without the Jem'Hadar using their rifles or the Breen their little prods. He can cut rations. That was how Deyos kept his prisoners in line at the camp. Certainly, Weyoun will do the same, should we give him a reason. He's aware that it's very hard to ignore it when your children are hungry.

end, Part 1, Chapter 2 of Surrender


	3. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 3

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this chapter:

The Underground Man, by Ross MacDonald

Chapter 3

I know the walls are an illusion. They can watch us here as easily as in an open cargo hold. They didn't at the camp, could not have been watching or I'd have been dead long ago, but if everything else has changed that must have too. But the walls are a good illusion. If we cannot get away from our unseen masters, we can at least escape the company of the others for a few hours.

It's been very hard to have no privacy. Even after weeks of hunger and humiliation we still crave some time alone, a space of our own. The walls are dingy grey and the door hardly closes, but for now it is our own place.

Ezri and I cuddle together on the small bed, a glorified cot but it is a lot better than the floor. We revel in being alone. The pillows are an absolute luxury.

But the best part is simply to be alone, to have her in my arms. The way she's molded herself to me, arms entwined, makes the nightmare fade for a little while.

We don't make love, though obviously some have. You can hear the noise through the walls. I'm too emotionally spent, still recovering from the starvation diet we were fed after our capture. But in Ezri there is finally a spark of life, something she has not had since they shoved us into that beastly hold and reduced us to basic survival.

I worry about her. Many of the others have gone into a deep depression, too listless and quiet. But not Ezri. It is as if none of this really happened, as if she'll wake up soon and it will all vanish. What happens when she doesn't, when she knows she never will. Even if we are lucky enough to be liberated, we'll still be here.

A part of me never left Internment Camp 371, went back each night and relived all the nightmares. Each battle we fought I wondered what they'd do if they had me again. To agree to the trade of prisoners with Keevan, to voluntarily walk back into their captivity had been nearly impossible to do.

None of these people here will really leave this place, always retain a small tie to it no matter how the future turns out. Somewhere inside Ezri knows this, and she shuts it and the reality of life away.

When that crumples, what happens to her, to all of these people living with the delusion that this is a life?

But we are cuddled close, warm and relaxed, when she wraps her arms around me and gives me a kiss.

I look into her eyes. There is fear and anger, shame and relief, and a hint of joy as well.

She sits up, taking my hand.

"I take you, Julian Bashir, for my husband," she says.

"And I take you, Ezri Dax, for my wife." I grin. "Now I get to kiss the bride."

This time the kiss is better, much more enthusiastic, and I notice how much the bed squeaks.

She settles back inside my arms. Neither of us are ready for the honeymoon yet. Reveling in what has become luxury, we sleep well.

We're still asleep when quite suddenly we are jarred awake by a sound.

I recognize it immediately, though Ezri wouldn't. I remember the first time I ever heard it at the internment camp. It had surprised me how quickly Klingon generals and Cardassian spy masters rushed to obey. For a moment it is as if I have awakened in the camp again, reliving that first morning.

"We have to get up." I start untangling blankets and arms and legs. She's still half-asleep.

"That would be my guess," she yawns.

"If it means the same thing we assemble somewhere when it rings." I can't keep the urgency out of my tone, the knowledge that we will all learn what I already know.

She watches me, and sighs. "Ok," she says. "At least we don't have to get dressed."

"We should find out where to go," I say. I'm surprised the anxiety is so strong. It has been a long time. But then, I never really told anyone about the nightmares.

She is up now, nervous but keeping calm. "Don't rush. If that's what it means the others don't know. They'll tell us." She takes my hand, forcing me to sit. I relax a little.

I still worry, though. Deyos assembled us to give out bad news. At least, it was always bad for us. After all the time he'd been there, Martok could predict how bad it was by how long we were made to wait.

What will happen today? We still have no idea why we have been kept here when the others were all sent away.

We move towards the door, Ezri first. I'm trying not to rush past her. It doesn't take long to find out where to go. The voice of the Jem'Hadar booms over the speaker. "All prisoners, assemble by the gate."

I take Ezri's arm and hurry us along. People are moving towards the gate with a mixture of confusion and worry. I still remember the prods and can't imagine the Jem'Hadar armed with them. Ezri studies them, and I can only guess what's going through her mind. I won't ask what they did to her when she was held by the Breen. She doesn't ask about the internment camp. We don't share our nightmares. But she is entirely too calm right now.

We reach the gate among a crowd of nervous people. The guards point us towards the tables where we eat. We push our way in, sitting or standing where there is room. Nobody says anything, not even the children.

The gate squeaks open. The Jem'Hadar and a few Breen line the way out. They all have prods. Very tense, Ezri is staring at them now. I worry her shield will fail, when I can do nothing to help.

The First thumps his way into our cage. He reads a list of names, those of us with something special they need for now. We follow each other across the room, away from the tables. Reluctantly, I let go of Ezri's hand, her grip so hard my fingers are numb.

Soon, all that remains are the families they are holding to insure our cooperation. Ignoring us, he abruptly address them. "You will be assigned work today after your morning meal. Remain here after eating."

Down the hallway, a cart with two tubs of food and bowls is slowly rolled inside. The bowls are split down the middle. Several prisoners have set up a table with a bin of spoons. They don't look at us. The others have started to drift into a line.

Those of us considered "special" are dealt with separately. The Second calls out our names while his Third gives each one of us a pass. Then the First returns his attention to us. "This is your work pass. Keep it with you at all times you are out of this area. You have access to areas normally forbidden to prisoners with these passes." He pauses, holding the prod in his hand and pointing it at us. "If you abuse this privilege, you will be punished."

We stare at it, giving him our complete attention, and he continues. "If you are found out of a permitted area you will be shot." He turns, finally done with us, and follows the other guards out the gate, quickly shut behind them.

As if any of us are going to try and run with so many guns pointed at us . . .

We nervously drift back to the breakfast line, curious to see what sort of food such lucky captives are fed. I notice Ezri is near the back of the line and hurry to join her. Hoping to postpone the day as long as possible and not cut in front of anyone, I take her hand and we move to the end of the line.

Waiting silently, she studies my pass. Her gaze keeps shifting back to the guards. There is no conversation at all.

Slowly, the line disappears and it's our turn to eat. But now there is no place to sit, and we continue to stand and wait with Miles and his family, the very end of the line. It is a relief when, one of the first nervous groups having finished, we take our food and sit, sharing with the O'Briens. It's crowded but the bowls don't take up much space.

One side of the bowl contains a fairly thick gruel which tastes mostly like the regular rations. The other side is a vaguely flavored broth. We get a spoon and a glass of water.

The gruel would taste very strange if we hadn't already gotten used to the rations, but somehow it's more filling this way. I dip a spoonful of the gruel in the broth and the flavor is a little different. I watch as Ezri tries not to look back at the guards.

They are being unusually patient. They must not be ready for us. But before we're finished with our food the guards open the gate and start pushing those that have eaten out into the corridor, each one motioned out as the bowl is returned to the bin. They have no passes, and will have to live with the constant watch of the guards. Ezri stares at them for a moment. Somehow, she will have to manage. Both of our nightmares were coming back to life. She watches the prods as she nibbles on her food.

She is eating so slowly I can tell she is having trouble keeping herself under control. "Just do what they say," I whisper, glancing at the guards. "Hurry up before they make you dump it."

It is a relief when she hurries her meal. It is a lot easier for me to worry about her. I still have no idea what they want with me. But I'm certain it will prove a lot harder-in the end-than whatever sort of work they have in mind for Ezri and the rest.

I watch as the others let go of their wives or husbands hands and spouses and older children drift into the line forming behind the gate. Jackson has a look of panic, but Cheryl doesn't hesitate. Tina moves quickly too, as her husband looks away. Ezri looks up at me, nervous, but not . . . the same. I can't explain it, but I feel better. She isn't about to freeze, and yet she isn't so distant. Maybe reality has started to sink in. Maybe some other part of her is helping. If it gets her back safe, I don't care.

Standing by the gate, I watch with trepidation as Ezri and the others vanish from sight. Those of us with passes are kept waiting, the only one's spared an obviously pregnant woman they'd kept back and the smaller children. Miles and his Ops people make up the majority, but there are a few others, like me, who are left in uncomfortable suspense.

o0o

Staring at the gate, we wait for our future. Though it has probably not yet been an hour, the time drags so much it feels as if an eternity has passed.

Everyone is apprehensive, and we try not to look at the gate. The children are playing, and their high pitched voices and laughter somehow make the wait easier. I still glance at the gate, and a few just stare, but most of us-especially those with children-have come to watch their noisy play instead. It's a reminder of what is at stake today.

The others, even Realand, know why they've been picked. None of them want to go, but there is no mystery to solve. I try to watch the children, but its hard to not to wonder. I can't stand the suspense anymore. Since I know they don't *allow* medical treatment, why am I here? It must be something else. The children are not enough of a distraction.

It's been a long wait and I have nothing but myself to think about. Now that it is so near, I can't push away the memories. Before, I wasn't any different than the rest. I was cold and hungry and filthy and scared. But now, now I face something none of them do, a decision I alone must make.

No one will be told to do what they will want of me. The children play, but I remember standing next to Sloan, the Romulan mind probes in hand and his suicide attempt that made them useless. Miles and I sit in a corridor, injured as we try to navigate the dying mans mind. His wife and all the people who had been abandoned along the way, and the very different Luther Sloan they knew make me wonder what made him into the enemy. And that office strewn with the files of his mind, finally *that* file, fill me with a tangible sense of regret.

If we'd never found the secret, I could not have cured the disease. Then no one could ask me to make such a complete betrayal of my own. I remember celebrating with Miles at Quarks past closing hours, how upset Quark had been until we bought him off.

What were we celebrating? Odo's life, yes, but what of the others? What do I do when they tell me I must cure them, the same enemy who has sent so many friends to hell?

There were weeks of sleepless nights expecting Sloan's people to return, but they never did. I do not know what happened to Odo, but his people are dying and I could cure them. None of my records remain on the station, even my most private notes. But they have me. They understand that short of a mindwipe I'd still remember, and even at the end the Federation wasn't that desperate.

Sloan's people would have done it, kidnaped me and taken away all I knew. At this moment, faced with a betrayal far worse than any to be asked of the others, I wish 31 had come back. The enemy couldn't force me to do what I no longer remember.

I don't want to cure them. Most of the people that survived capture are on Cardassia living in virtual slavery. Most of the people taken on this station are with them by now. I can't imagine the sort of conditions they must be trapped in, and doubt many will come out of it alive.

If *alive* is the right word for the survivors.

Here, those of us lucky enough to be useful live more comfortably, but we are still their prisoners, lately relegated to being their slaves as well. By any definition, it would be treason to cure them.

But Ezri is here. She's all I have left of my life. Miles and his family are a few rows of quarters away, my best friend. I don't know the others well, but well enough. If I refuse they will kill or deport her and probably the rest. She and the others are my sacrifice.

But we will lose, whatever comes of it. If the Founders die, the Jem'Hadar will kill us too. If I save them, I will be saving ourselves as well.

I stare at the gate, knowing I can not refuse. I can stall, perhaps, or find a way to make them appear to be cured. Maybe the Federation will find a way to win, though with the wormhole to supply themselves the Dominion has all the advantages. Maybe it's over already. A lot could have happened since our capture. The battle over Cardassia took almost everything we had. What else remains for us to lose?

And if it means the survival of their gods, the price will be very high if I fail them. I can sell my soul for Ezri and so many others to survive, or I can condemn friends and the only family I can touch to some sort of hell. Should I do what I want, refuse out of hand, they will die.

I would sacrifice my life before I'd save the changelings, but can I take so many others with me?

And yet, somehow, it doesn't make sense. If they know I cured Odo why wait all this time, with the gods so ill? They would not risk the Founders if they knew I could cure them. They do not yet know. But, then, what else would spare doctors when we serve no purpose in their world?

o0o

The children are gathered around the woman, hardly noticing us at all as she winds the words of a story together. He voice is animated, changing with the role of the speaker. She growls as the bear, boasts as the handsome prince, and sighs as the maiden. All of us are listening, drawn into the children's story, not entirely because it takes our minds off who we're waiting for. I'm not sure if I want them to hurry and get it over with, or take their time so I can hear the whole tale of maiden and prince and bear.

The bear, now revealed to be the enchanted form of her chosen suitor, had challenged the prince to a contest. Should the prince be victor, the bear will return to the forest forever. Should the bear be victor, the prince will seek out the wizard who cast the enchantment and free the bear of his animal state. The prince will also abandon his pursuit of the maiden, protecting her until the time the bear, now in his own human form, can claim her.

The story is interrupted by the squeaking of the gate, and the arrival of a contingent of Jem'Hadar and Breen. The women and children disappear into the residential area. I try to take my mind off my own future by noting that the Breen are always surrounded by the Jem'Hadar. They don't trust their allies. No doubt, the Breen don't trust them either. I just hope we don't get caught in the middle.

I wonder if the bear really trusts the Prince to accept the bargain. I have never heard the story, it being one of her mothers, so I have to be here to find out. I hope someone cares about what the maiden wants, though I doubt they do.

The Jem'Hadar enter the gate, and we all back up a little. The First fixes us in his gaze.

He begins. We already know, but it's worse when he says the words.

"You have been selected to serve the Dominion in your former functions on this station. As long as you remain useful, you will have certain privileges. If any of them are abused, they will be removed and you will be punished." His hand is on the prod as he says it. "Any attempts at sabotage will result in the deportation of your families. Their presence is your reward for good behavior. Do not take them for granted."

We grow very subdued. Put so bluntly, we are robbed of any illusions. Miles stares at the table in front of him, and most of the rest are looking away, trying to deal with the reality of the moment. Maybe it's easier for me. I already understood. But even I am having a hard time with it.

"You will be called and taken to your stations," says the First abruptly.

He steps away from the others, going through the gate. More Breen are waiting and the Second calls out the first name, Michael Scalman. He stands, looking towards the place his children disappeared. Nervously, he follows his guard out the door, looking back one last time. Both of Scalman's children are inside with the woman, and I'm grateful she moved them out of the way. Let their world have a little security. The guard stops just outside and a Breen follows behind.

More names are called, all the Ops people. Jackson stands, scared, but looking away from them. He walks slowly, but with no hesitation. Having finally found them, he would do anything to save his family. Brenda Harwell wastes no time obeying, as do the rest. His whole staff assembled, Miles is the last. He flashes a look of resigned guilt, then it disappears. He marches out, not looking back. But I don't envy him. First, he's given the burden of choosing and now he must help the tormentors fix the station.

But then, nobody cared what the maiden thought either.

The others are called, from a smattering of departments, all with skills to fix what was destroyed before they stole our home. Realand is trying to pretend he isn't scared, but he is the exception. His wife is called afterwards. But his daughter is gone with Ezri and the others, doing whatever work they have found for them. I watch as one by one they all go.

Then I'm the last one left, and the guards all disappear. I sit alone now, watching as the woman and her charges crawl out into the open area. The children stare at the place their fathers or mothers had been.

She begins the story again. The prince, ever boastful, remarks with warning that on his estates, they shoot bears for sport.

"You will not shoot *me*," growls the bear in answer.

I look towards the gate, hoping they let me hear the rest of the story, but several Jem'Hadar have stopped, and are dragging open the gate. The woman looks up, watching.

"Julian Bashir, come now," says the First himself.

Caught somewhere between relief and dread, I slowly follow him out. I look back at the woman, watching as the children are already deeply involved in the story.

Would they be left alone if she were not here? Or is this just another privilege that can be taken away?

I can't imagine the idea of having a child here. What happened to the little girl that had been crying that first day? Was she among these children, listening to stories and playing with hand made toys, or . . . I can't finish the thought. Even if they left the small children alive, how long would little ones like these last in the nightmare they'd made of Cardassia.

o0o

I follow my guards as we pass out of the main residential area of the habitat ring and towards an area used for offices. The station still looks the same, just empty. They've even repaired some of the damage. The only difference is everywhere the lights are brighter. It highlights the oddly graceful Cardassian design, perhaps a last monument to a culture and people who no longer exist.

They move fast, and then, quit abruptly, I'm stopped in front of an unmarked door. It's opened and I'm ushered inside. The First stands in the open door but does not enter.

I look up with dread mixed with curiosity, but find myself astonished instead. There are a few beds and a very basic infirmary. I recognize a few things from my . . . old? one. But most of the instruments are missing. Through an adjoining door, a small lab is visible.

It isn't the same, hardly up to the technology I'm used to, but I have a lot of field experience when most of the kit is empty. It won't be that different. I take a few hesitant steps inside, still not sure it is real.

They don't allow medical treatment. Maybe I'm dreaming this because I don't want to see what it really is. Maybe it's a laboratory and I'm to make the cure now.

"You will work here," orders the First. "You are to familiarize yourself with your equipment and medicines. Do not leave the room."

The door shuts and the room doesn't change. It's still a poorly equipped infirmary, but one perfectly satisfactory for the normal range of cases I'm used to.

I'm both astonished and bewildered. This is new. Doctors held prisoner have been used before, if not by the Dominion. But I can't leave the room. I don't have any choice in patients. Will I be treating their pick of our own people or the Dominion officials who now run the station?

Still uncertain what they want of me, the sense of relief is enormous. I will be allowed to be a doctor. I will have a little of my life back.

But most of all, it's good to be in this room. I wasn't made to work among the ghosts of my murdered patients.

o0o

I've done a survey of my supplies. There are enough, but like everything else in the world they've made, it's not really sufficient. Most of the instruments I relied on are gone. There is no tissue regenerator, and any patient needing surgery is out of luck.

Not that I'll likely see anyone like that. They also control the choice of patients by their own rules. I can repair minor injuries, fix broken bones-though not fully, and generally prevent the infection of wounds. But so much else will be impossible. Internal injuries are un-treatable. I can patch up those hurt too bad to survive on their own, given our circumstances, but only if it is routine.

Even with this I could have only kept Tain alive a little while longer. But I could have helped Martok and Worf. Am I a reward for good behavior? Have my skills been made into a new kind of control over our lives? Waiting in the empty room, I remind myself that we are all here to be used, that our immunity from a slow death is being useful.

Yet, I am a doctor. It is my job to heal people. I despise them for using me this way, but can't refuse to work. A doctor refusing to treat his patients is unthinkable.

Nobody asked the maiden if she wanted the knight or the bear either. I wonder if she would have preferred to lose both of them? I'll have to ask the woman how the story ends . . .

A few long hours pass before I have a patient, but the door slides open and a young Bajoran woman is guided inside. She's been in some kind of accident, with a few cuts that have to be closed, and a lot of bruises. I patch her up, doing my best with what I have, and she's taken out again. I'm short on pain killers, and I can tell some of it hurts. But she doesn't say a word to me, watching everything I do with a somber gaze. Just before they take her back she momentarily makes eye contact, nodding a silent thank you.

I still don't know why I'm here. But standing in the now deserted room, it occurs to me that long ago they would take care of prized livestock and let the marginal ones live or die. It is the only answer-other than Odo-that I can imagine. I'm repulsed by the idea of curing them, but everything in this room, even the patients silence, reminds me that I'm just a possession to them.

I still wonder if Tain, with some care, might have survived to be liberated. Even if he died a little while later, it would have mattered to die free.

And yet, outmoded methods and all, it was *satisfying* to treat the woman. For at time I was whole. The guards were outside. Nobody watched over my shoulder. I'm sure they watched-everywhere here is monitored. But after a time you accept the illusion because you must.

With nothing to do, I study the lab. The tools given me are primitive and the range of testing methods limited. The results will be less polished, but I can do about as well as I did during the war, working out of a medkit alone.

Despite the simplicity, it is still more than enough to make the drug that cured Odo. Counting my supplies for the fourth time, I remind myself that they know everything there is to know about me, all my abilities. I've been replaced by one of them, and nobody even knew.

Is that why I am here, why Weyoun or the other Vorta was unknowingly moved to save me, so I can be made to cure their dying gods? Or is it something else, something I'd refuse, and this is a sham to make me like them, and make sure I already belong when it's time. By then, will I be used to obeying their commands? As a doctor, do they understand I feel obliged to help?

Or *can* I make myself save them? That would be giving myself to the enemy, and I won't do that. It was wonderful to treat the woman. It made me feel fully alive. Do they understand? Is this just something more to lose in the end should, no *when*, I refuse them whatever this place is to prepare me for?

But that is the future. This room, these instruments, this *job* is today. If I can take back my life for a few hours, help the ones they let me help, I'll count myself and Ezri lucky.

o0o

There are twenty-five specimen cases. I know. I've counted them twice already. There are only twenty-three covers. I decide to make note of that in case it matters some day. Or to have something to do. The time drags worse in this place than in the cells we've been locked in before. At least there we knew there was nothing we could do about it. I'd like a patient, someone to distract my mind from all the unwanted thoughts I can't chase away. I'm hoping when the door slides open and a guard enters.

"Come now," he barks in normal Jem'Hadar fashion.

Nervous, I trail after him, surprised that I'm trusted with only my one guard. Or, only one that I can see. I have no illusions about that.

He leads me on a tour of the station. A lifetime has passed since I've seen most of it, but only perhaps a month has gone by.

How can a month take such a long time?

It is so odd to walk past all the ghosts. Much of the station looks virtually the same, not even extra bright, except whole areas that should be crowded with people are deserted. The Promenade is so quiet. The shops were damaged during the battle, but with the doors closed you can imagine they just haven't opened for the day.

Of course, the people who ran them are gone, along with the customers who gave the place life. They have all been sent to hell. The Dominion doesn't need shops.

The Replimat is lighted, and I think of Garak as we pass it by. I suspect they are using it for themselves. The Vorta eat. Maybe they make our mush there. But there will be no more lunches with my friend.

He is dead. He was on Cardassia when all the Cardassians were slaughtered. Kira, for joining with them, is probably dead too.

How many others that I called friends are gone? How many of them will die in the hot Cardassian sun cleaning up the piles of decaying mess?

I shudder when I think of Ezri being sent there.

He's leading me towards the ward room. When we arrive, I'm escorted inside and discover Weyoun sitting at the table, gazing out at the wormhole.

Ships are pouring through, lots of them. A little more of that hope I cherish dies as I watch, transfixed by the sight of our doom. We had so little left. It's only a matter of time.

He looks up. I stand where I'm told to wait. The guards back up and Weyoun studies me.

"You will run a small infirmary for our local workers. Considering the unusual nature of this station, some of you are hard to replace."

I note he sounds rather pleased with himself.

He is watching me and I force myself to stay calm. I still don't believe that is all he wants, but it makes some sense. I guess the families are allowed medical treatment as a benefit of being hostages-as long as fathers or mothers behave.

He sounds finished. I want him to be done. I can't stand to be in the same room with the man who has killed so many of my own. I have to get away from the window and its terrible view of the wormhole and our doom.

Then he looks up again, his expression preoccupied. "There is another matter. Ezri Dax is not married to you. We must remedy that. You'll be married this evening after your meal."

It is an order. It defines my place in his world, no matter how many special privileges I have.

But I'm too overwhelmed by the amount of ships coming through the wormhole to think much about it. I can't tear my gaze away from a huge fleet of Jem'Hadar ships funneling out of the swirling blue and white jewel in the dark sky.

How can something so beautiful serve something so terrible as the Dominion?

"You may ask questions. You have my permission." He sounds busy, and all I want is to leave this room.

I don't want to talk to him. I want to be away from the window that is filled with the end. But he is waiting for a question. I know I must give a good impression, play the game by his rules.

"There is no place to keep patients overnight," I say, able to think of nothing else.

"You are a good doctor. If necessary they might be excused from work." He gazes out the window and sounds pleased with himself. "You will do your best, and we'll see what is required when necessary."

He is amused by my hesitation. I want out of the room, back to our cage and out of his sight.

"Thank you, Sir," I say, swallowing the revulsion I feel at the courtesy. "Ezri will be happy." I'm not sure of that, but she won't argue about staying.

Weyoun is apparently tired of the conversation. He waves the guard out and I am more than willing to go.

"She'll be listed with your last name," he says. He addresses the guards. "Let him finish his shift."

I hardly notice the empty spaces inside what was home on the way back. I am still too stunned by the fleets of ships. There will be no liberation. I'll officially marry Ezri because we have to, and I don't want her to die on Cardassia.

I don't trust Weyoun, but then at least I bought some time to figure out what to do when they demand I cure the changelings.

o0o

Ezri and I will be officially married tonight. As I am let inside after my shift finally ends I notice she is already in line for dinner. She looks dirty and tired, but not hurt. I'd almost managed to forget how worried I was about her.

She moves to the back of the line to join me. "You don't have to examine me," she quips. "I'm still in one piece."

She's in her previous mood, but I still look for signs of bruises or limping. "I should hope so," I pause, wondering how she'll react. "We're getting married tonight."

Her gaze drifts toward our quarters where we'd given our private vows. "Didn't we already? Or didn't that count?" she says, and I wonder, again, if it would have happened if the war hadn't ended this way.

"Not officially," I say quietly, trying to keep the bitterness out of my tone. We'd already said real vows. What does it matter if Weyoun orders us to play his game. The Federation wouldn't have recognized our private vows either. "He wants a real ceremony to make it official, so you can stay." Of course, when we were a part of the Federation, we would have had a choice.

She shrugs a little. "Maybe we'll have a party," she says, but there is no joy in it. She's trying to pretend that we have a little say in our personal lives, but it doesn't work.

"You get to be Ezri Bashir," I add. "Paperwork still exists."

"Oh," she says, and it occurs to me she might not want to change her name. But then, I'm sure neither the prince nor the bear bothered to ask the maiden.

Miles is standing nearby, and joins the conversation. "A wedding tonight?" he asks.

"By Weyoun's order," I answer, softly. "I already married her anyway."

He has a thoughtful look. "I don't think people would mind a little distraction tonight." He puts his arms around both of us. "Well do our best for you."

As he drifts off, I look at Ezri, watching the line as it crawls towards the pots of food. It's been a very long day and as the food comes closer we are both more interested in dinner than the evening's events. "I could think of better circumstances but I'll still marry you," she says. Looking at Miles, she almost smiles. "He's planning something, you know." He's talking to little knots of people who glance back at us. "Maybe we'll have that party after all," she adds.

"Weyoun will probably like that, like he's done us a favor," I add, very quietly, almost in a whisper. I turn away from her, still haunted by all those ships gone to annihilate our own.

She smiles, a little vicious grin. "Too bad Worf wasn't there."

Her little comment backfires. It would be satisfying to have Worf snap another Weyoun's neck, but he's dead. Even if he was alive, he'd never be allowed near another Vorta. "I could have done without that remark," I mutter.

Even Ezri decides to drop it. Subdued, she sighs. "Do I at least get to have a shower before the wedding?" she asks. Tugging at her dirty clothes, she explains, "We loaded crates all day. It was pretty dirty."

Thinking about the almost boring day I'd spent, except for the woman and Weyoun, I answer carefully. "I doubt it. It's not the end of the week yet."

About then, we reach the servers and our conversation ends. Miles has vanished somewhere, and people are whispering around us. But all we really care about right then is dinner. It's hot and the broth is still a novelty. We eat quickly, too hungry to savor much of the flavor. Strange how it's already grown on us.

Dumping our dishes back on the cart, one of the last to eat, the servers start to drag it out the door. But several Jem'Hadar approach and after the cart is past they block the door.

"Ezri Dax, you will come," one of them orders. Somehow it isn't quite the normal bark they use.

She looks at me, about to make some remark, but stops herself this time as the guards urge her to hurry.

The gate closes behind them and she disappears down the corridor. I don't expect them to hurt her just before her wedding, but just the same I prefer to stay by the gate.

I notice Cindy Carlan standing nearby. I hadn't heard her name until dinner, but keep thinking of the story she'd been telling the children this morning. Her husband has not yet returned. At first, we share our vigil in silence. But the story is too intriguing. I want to know the end.

"I'd love to hear the rest of your story," I hesitantly mention. "Sometime you could tell it to everyone."

She doesn't take her eyes off the corridor. "How far did you get before . . . " she pauses, her soft, worried voice betraying everything.

Maybe it would help her to tell the story. Perhaps it would help to distract both of us until our people were returned.

"The prince had threatened to shoot the bear and the bear said he wouldn't succeed."

"Oh, the challenge," she says, trying and giving up on the story voice. "Sorry I can't manage that."

"It's all right. I just wanted to hear the story." I feel comfortable talking to her, and don't bother to hide the worry.

"The prince can't turn down a challenge, though he is sure he'll win. The bear demands he defy all his enemies and even all the scores."

"Of course, the prince can't resist," I predict.

"And he's got a lot of enemies. Turns out he's not so strong as he thinks. So when he gets himself into lots of trouble, the bear rescues him from them by having him enchanted into another bear."

"So, who does the maiden marry?" I ask.

"The prince. Or she thinks he is. The bear has the wizard finish the job by turning himself into the prince. So he gets the estates, the power, and the maiden."

"And the prince?"

"He gets shot by the fake one. Remember they hunt bears on his estates . . . "

"So," I ask cautiously, "how do the children like the end?"

"Fine. I leave out the part about the former prince getting shot. Of course, my mother told me the story just to make sure I got the message. She was very disappointed by my father."

She's human, but strikes me as more like Kira than your average Starfleet wife. Resting her hand on her belly, she stares out into the hallway, her expression resigned.

"What about the maiden, did anybody ask her what she wanted to do, or did she know she wasn't really marrying the prince?"

"Nobody cares about the maiden, she's just there." Her voice is as even as before, but there is a trace of bitterness allowed to creep in.

I move a little closer. "Are you doing all right, any problems?"

"I'm doing fine. It's just," she pauses. "I was raised on one of the boarder colonies. When I was twelve, the Cardies killed my parents and one of my sisters. When they evacuated the survivors, we were sent to Earth and raised by my aunt. But they didn't get to us for three months. We hid in the mountains and ate what we could find." She pauses again, rubbing the gentle rise of her stomach. "Sorry if I can't feel too sorry for the Cardies. I mean, they were *allies*. How many of us did they kill this time before they wised up about . . . "

She lapses into silence, staring again, waiting. We share our nervous vigil. I glance at her again-her strong eyes keeping in all the worry, her tense but composed stance. I wonder if she is what out next generation will be like.

She steps back, composed, as her husband is escorted to the gate and enters, simply taking his hand as he comes to her. His dinner has been saved and he wastes no time eating, the two quickly disappearing into their quarters.

But like her, I can't leave. I can't relax until Ezri walks back through the gate. Alone, I keep seeing all the ships, and all I can hear is the hard, confident tone Weyoun used when he gave the order.

I don't like being ordered to wed, with the threat of hell if I say no. I might have married Ezri in time, but not this way. At least we had last night's exchange, when we spoke from the heart. I want her to know I care. I will always care. But it is demeaning to have all the real options taken away.

Like we are property. Like we are slaves.

Then I see her, walking behind two Jem'Hadar. She is standing straight, her clothes clean. I want to wait for her like the woman, hide my fears, but it's all I can do to keep from rushing to the gate instead of walking slowly.

She steps inside and I pull her towards me, just holding her. She's had a shower as well, her hair still damp. Weyoun wants something. I need Ezri, but I am also afraid for her.

More guards appear, this time with an official looking type in tow. From the arrogant way he moves, he's already decided which side he's on and I guess the guards are more for his protection than control. As far as I can tell, he's human.

He's safe for now. I remember what came of those who slept with the Cardassians, how their deaths were considered a particular prize, and wonder how long he'll last.

"I will officiate at the wedding," he explains, keeping to the side, his guards waiting outside. He glances towards them occasionally, as if he was nervous about being locked in with us.

Miles and crew arrange the area. Everyone, even Cindy Carlan and her husband, attend. Our guests stand or sit around the tables. In front of them, in the shadow of the gate, Ezri and I stand next to each other and in front of the traitor who will marry us. Miles is my best man. Tina Scalman, a friend of Ezri's stands with her. We have no rings.

But then, there is a surprise. Someone hands wedding rings to Miles and Tina. The previous owners are probably dead. They are simple bands, a little worn, but fit well enough. It is eery to slide the stolen ring on her finger, but then there is little of this ceremony that can be called festive.

The words are the standard Federation text, minus any references to the Federation. We say yes at the appropriate moments. The traitor pronounces us husband and wife.

I wonder if Weyoun was watching. He should be pleased. Now everything is official, and there are no broken rules.

I kiss the bride. It is odd, because I feel like I have to. But then, I like kissing her too. She returns it, but there is no passion or joy.

I wish it could just be a formality, the real words having been already said. But that was our choice. This is not. This is an act of control.

But suddenly, everything changes. Everyone applauds with genuine cheer.

For a moment we all forget what this is and Ezri an I share a real kiss, full of as much emotion as we are capable of now, and part reluctantly. Our friends gather around and we all share hugs. It is a bittersweet moment, with so many other friends gone.

It is a moment shared with Miles-my best friend-at a time when most of us have lost all their real friends. I am more grateful that Miles is here now than when we were almost lost inside Sloan's mind and he helped me remember why we were there.

No. Don't think about that now. Don't ruin what little joy there is tonight.

A cart is pushed in the gate, and we are allowed to serve ourselves a glass of something sweet. The taste is unfamiliar, but we savor it. The gruel is slightly salty, the broth has a tang, but we have only water to drink. The sweet drink is a sip of paradise.

Miles glances behind him, and one of his people passes something forward. Ezri and I are overwhelmed by the rings and drink. It has made what was a cruel ruse into a celebration. I'll even tolerate the traitor if he keeps out of the way.

"Have a good night," says Miles. "Happy wedding," he adds, handing us a book.

It's heavy, solid, a tie to the past before we had padds. I open the cover, discovering it to be a detective/adventure novel of a very respectable vintage. Vic might have read it in his time. "The Underground Man, by Ross MacDonald," I read from the cover. I can't hide the joy that it brings. I've never read it, but can't wait to start on the first page.

"It's all we could manage for a wedding present," explains Tina.

Miles adds, "If we don't cause any trouble, we can have more.'

Ezri makes no comment, but suddenly looks exhausted. We lead her to a bench and she sits next to Tina. But, taking the book, she has an inspiration. "Let's read some of it now, for everybody. Who wants to read first?"

One of the others, one I don't know, says with excitement, "We could read a little each day, maybe after dinner. We'd have something to look forward to that way."

We have no music to play. I can't take that first dance with my wife. But I'm nominated to read first. Everyone has arraigned themselves within easy distance, and I begin our first tradition.

After the reading we go to our room, our minds still on the book.

I'm still caught up in the tragedy of the man, Stanley, who has spent his life obsessed with the disappearance of his father, and the boy, his son, who is missing now too. I can smell the smoke of the encroaching brush fire as it returns to scorch the ground above Stanley's roughly dug grave. The vivid images of a hot California summer, the devil wind stirring the fires flows through my mind. I want to know where the boy and the blond girl had gone, what connection Stanley's death has to his father's vanishing fifteen years before. I've been taken away to a vivid place filled with evocative images that still dance in my head. I dwell in the unspoken hint of tragedy that is already palatable. I want my day to pass quickly, my mush to come and go, and to go back to that place so I can stand to be in this one.

The book belongs to us. We could read all of it if we wanted to. But we set it on the table, the page carefully marked. We will hear it along with the others. There must be something special for tomorrow, for all the tomorrows that will come.

Ezri slides into bed. She's already pushed the chair against our door so nobody can interrupt.

Grinning, she opens her coveralls, but just a little. She looks around. "I see a beach, and I'm stretched out on this sandbar. It's a little narrow, but we'll have just enough room. Over there," she says, pointing at the door, "the waves are rolling in all around us. Up there," pointing at the wall, there's a solid bank of trees, with flowers of every color."

I move towards her, cautiously, as if I was wading through waist high water. "Wouldn't want to get those wet," I say, kneeling on the floor, the water flowing around me.

"Well, you'll just have to be careful," she says, as I open them all the way down, carefully sliding my hands inside, tickling her nipples with my fingers.

She gasps, sitting up, dislodging my hands. "Remember, keep them dry," she says, but half out of breath.

I slide off her coveralls, so soft and clean, and take care to put them on the table. For a second the water and the trees fade. But then, with her bare, inviting body stretched out on the cot, I can even smell the salt air and flowers.

I rise up, teasing, "Your turn. Don't worry, I'm already wet."

She unfastens my clothes, pealing them back while she slides her body against me. I can feel the erect nipples as she rubs them against mine. I tear off my clothes, tossing them in the ocean and climb on the sandbar with her. It's narrow, and we have to work to balance. But I'm too busy as she licks and bites and makes me forget the Dominion and the dead and everything else.

When she's done, I start tracing her spots from the place they start at her neck almost all the way down. The sand is shifting under me, the tides making a loud racket, almost a squeak, but nothing else matters but her.

After a time, wrapped in each others arms, we finally fall asleep and dream of shifting sands and the scent of flowers.

Tomorrow she'll go back to her crates and I to my uncertainty. But for a little while we sent it all away, only aware of each other, tonight we have decided to have each other, empires and wars and disasters be damned. In our one little room, we celebrate the joy of being alive together.

End, Part 1, Chapter 3 of Surrender


	4. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 4

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this chapter:

The Underground Man, by Ross MacDonald

The Emerald City of Oz, by L. Frank Baum

Chapter 4

The first few days of the new Infirmary were slow, half the time leaving me little at all to do. But that was before the push started and the people they are forcing to work for them started to get hurt.

We are Group 1, the first group they established. But in the days after we were first moved there have been others. The only difference is far fewer of them are in "important" positions.

They want the station repaired as soon as they can, and they are pulling those with the skills they want from new prisoners, keeping them here in locked cages like ours. All of them have families of some sort, hostages to their behavior. But we are the best and brightest, the most important of their captives. Our families get the easier jobs.

The others are tearing apart the cargo holds below where we were held, little attention paid to safety. I get plenty of cuts and gashes and bruises, even a few broken bones. Most of them are sent home with days off. I give them as much recovery time as I dare, aware the guards judgement always outranks mine.

Such is the value I hold in their world. My patients purpose is the serve the Dominion by doing manual labor. My service is to keep them going, at least some of them. Those badly injured are simply shot. Those with very minor damage are sent home for an early rest.

I'm sure they could do the work simpler with the technology they have. But why bother when there are so many prisoners with nothing to do instead? Miles tells me about the rumors of their victories and our losses. He's the single most important of their "special" prisoners. He gets to go places nobody else can, has contact with others that would be impossible in our absolutely controlled new lives. He pays for it, though he won't talk about it. At "home" the guilt is shared. But outside some of the others regard him as a little too willing to cooperate. He isn't like the man who married us, but hovers a little too close for comfort.

They understand a little. Every single one of the "special" has a family, even if it wasn't all that common in Starfleet. Nobody talks about the ones without hostages that didn't get to stay. They are all aware that their work will benefit the Dominion, and yet the children waiting at the gate make it easy to lie to themselves. So Miles is only given a little distance.

He's lucky. They are a little more direct with me.

It's late and there have been too many patients today. My stomach is grumbling as the guards open the door. I'm hoping it is to take me back. But, instead, a girl limps inside, the door sliding shut behind her.

I recognize her, though I don't remember her name. I doubt she's even twelve. Cautiously climbing up on my table, she holds out her foot.

She doesn't look at me. None of them do, and I've taken to concentrating on their wounds or injuries rather than faces. I don't ask how it happened either. I just treat them and let them go.

She pulls off her boots, and her ankle is swollen and bruised. "Move your foot up and down," I tell her in my most neutral voice.

Observing the results, feeling the ankle as it moves, I'm relieved. "It's probably a sprain. I'll give you something for the swelling and bind it. Take off the binding and re-wrap it in the morning and evening until it stops hurting."

She nods, but makes no eye contact. I'm not sure where I stand in her world, her youth stolen so early. After I give her a hypo of an anti-inflammatory drug, I ask her to lie down. After the swelling disappears I can wrap her ankle and go eat.

There were too many patients today, work running very late. It was good that the last few have been minor injuries since I'm having trouble concentrating. It has been a long time since breakfast.

For them, too, I suppose. I wonder if the hazards of working under Jem'Hadar guards help you forget how hungry you are by the afternoon. Their short tempers and the dangerous conditions insure I have plenty to do.

I don't think about the ones hurt so bad that I'll never see them. I hardly think of the ones brought to me as people anymore. They keep their eyes to themselves, and I keep as much distance as possible.

It's easier for everybody. After all, I'm just making it possible for the guards to make them work. No wonder they don't want to look at me.

She's fallen asleep by the time her foot can be bandaged, and I wake her gently, tapping her hand. She pulls it away anyway and I almost feel guilty for fixing her ankle. But if I couldn't she'd be shot or deported, so I'm probably saving her life.

"Watch the way I do this," I instruct her.

She concentrates on my hands and the wrap, this time without as much pain showing in her eyes.

I just remembered her name, Lania. I won't use it, won't invade her privacy. But I wrap her ankle with more care than I might have a few minutes before.

Having finished the procedure, she suffers me helping her down. She carries her boots, still limping but with less trouble, as she disappears out the door.

Very relieved, I don't hesitate when they gruffly order me out, as if it was some sort of punishment to be able to eat and see my family. The walk back home seems very quick and I relax a little when the gate closes behind me.

I'm locked in a cage, but it's our cage. The guards stay on the other side of the gate.

Ezri is sitting at one of the tables, Molly and Yoshi playing some game with another little girl. My wife grasps my hand as I sit next to her, mostly seeing the bowl she's been saving for me.

It's cold and lumpy, the greasy part separated from the rest, but I don't care what it tastes like tonight.

"Miles and Keiko are busy," she says, flashing a small grin. I nod, but don't interrupt my dinner to reply. She pushes the book towards me. "We did the reading already. A lot of people were tired. The page is marked for you to catch-up."

I finish the last spoonful a little too soon, still wishing for more. "I'll watch the children and read if you need to rest," I offer. I need to hear them play right now. I need to get the grim life Lania has been relegated to out of my mind.

She nods, yawning. A young woman approaches, the other child's mother. "Tessie, time for bed." Tessie pouts, but stops the game. "Thanks for watching her."

"No problem," says Ezri, softly. "It was a pleasure, Cath," she adds. But I can't take my eyes off of her. She's reaching back, adjusting something that isn't there. Then she stops and looks up at me, "We've got to do something about these long evenings. I wasn't sure they were going to let me keep the bowl. You almost had to go to bed hungry."

It's an private little joke between us, and I know Ezri is there again.

She stands, patting the little girl on the head. I pick up the book, opening it to the page they'd started on, still watching Ezri as she and Catherine are talking. She reminds me of when she first arrived at the station and every so often a word or gesture would be a painful reminder. I keep thinking of why Jadzia died, how she'd been asking the Prophets for a child when Dukat killed her. She pats the girl again, her hand lingering.

Not that I want children in this place, but she knows we'll not likely have any of our own. We don't discuss it, but I can't miss the way her glances linger on the little ones. She smiles, a little wistful smile, and then sighs.

It worries me, this interest in the children. Ezri didn't want children. Jadzia wanted one so badly she died for it.

Molly distracts me. "Yoshi's sleepy," she says.

He's sitting on his blanket, eyes half-closed. Catherine is leaving and Ezri leans over to pick him up. "I'll put him to bed in our room for now."

Ezri heads towards our rooms, Molly tagging along at first but coming back after a minute. She sits next to me, taking my bowl and quietly cleaning the traces of mush and broth with her fingers.

I pretend not to notice, reading tonight's pages to myself. I'm a little disappointed, missing the way the images form in the mind when you can close your eyes and the shared suspense of hearing it together.

I read the words over, aloud to myself when Archer is interviewing the blonde girl's mother, so far out of contact with her daughter's reality

"She didn't move. She was one of those dreaming blondes who couldn't bear to face a change in her life. One of those waiting mothers who would sit forever beside the phone but didn't know what to say when it finally rang."

Archer insists on disturbing the father.

"As she passed me in the doorway I could feel the small chill in her fine body. The same cold presence reflected itself in the room. The chandelier for all its blaze was like a cluster of frozen tears. The white marble mantle was tomblike. The flowers in the vase were plastic, unsmellable, giving off a dull sense of artificial life."

The words stop me. I look around the grey walls, the gaunt furniture, the dull lighting. How can this tomb be home? Are we living in as much an unreality as the blonde girl's mother?

I need to read this with someone else. There are too many echos of lost hopes and dreams. Maybe I'll be back in time to join the others tomorrow. Maybe it will be a better day for everyone.

Last night, when we were reading, the guards paused in their patrol and just watched. We were standing with Archer as the fire descended down the hill, the trees suddenly bursting into flame. We retreated from the inferno, the heat licking at our clothes, as the house is left to the flames. We were with the woman as she sped away from all she owned, wishing we didn't understand so well.

I looked up, the Jem'Hadar carefully listening, but obviously unmoved by the words. I was actually a little sorry for them. They are slaves, too, but their enslavement runs too deep for any liberation. We can be locked up in cages and forced to do their bidding-but we can go to the hot, dry California summer and smell the drifting smoke of the fire, hurt with Archer as the boy is found, then lost again. Even if our liberation is long delayed, we own our own minds. When we are with Archer, we do not belong to them. But the Jem'Hadar will never escape their captivity, wired too deeply into their being.

Aside from repairing selected of their slaves our masters have left me alone, and it still makes no sense. I'm different from the others. They probably knew long before my parents unguarded remarks gave me away. Before I woke at Internment Camp 371, I had been examined. The memories of it are only brief, unpleasant flashes, but I'm sure of them. I left that out when I was debriefed after our escape.

Have I been spared to be an experimental animal? Is a Vorta scientist somewhere devising a way to make a smarter, stronger, but involuntarily loyal version of the human species? Am I here in the relative luxury of this cage so I'll be healthy when they are ready? Or have they already begun? Is there a half-twin out there now, waiting to be part of the new order of the universe? Will I be allowed to live once they have taken what they want?

Ezri has wandered back, Molly still working on the bowl, when there is a commotion of sorts and the gate is opened. Two Jem'Hadar and their prisoner enter. It is a woman, I think, her hands chained behind her back, stumbling along with them.

I vaguely notice the red hair, trimmed short in a rather haphazard fashion. The Jem'Hadar tower over her. She doesn't fight them. She slumps forward a little while they unchain her, facing the gate. Abruptly, her hands freed, she faints.

I know I should try to help her. But I don't have a medkit and the Jem'Hadar are with her. And Molly is here, too close, looking up from the bowl. I can't do anything for the woman yet, but put down the book and stand. From here I can see her face.

Stunned, I start carefully towards her.

She was on Cardassia when it fell. By all rights, she should be dead. Maybe-just maybe-she would know something of the others.

I stop, impatient for the guards to go. She is unconscious. I can't stand the thought of her being brought here just to die. If Kira is alive maybe . . . possibly some of the others might be too.

Finally, the guards retreat through the gate and it slams shut and is locked.

I rush the last few paces, kneeling down to check her for injuries. Not that I can do much here, but perhaps I could stabilize her until tomorrow.

Molly nearly runs into me, but stops herself. "Is Aunt Nerys Ok?" she asks in her scared childish voice.

Kira looks thin and dirty, but is dressed as we are. I can find no obvious injuries. I guess that malnutrition and exhaustion are her chief problems.

"I think so. Come hold her hand, talk to her."

Molly slides forward and gives her a kiss.

The Jem'Hadar are still standing on their side of the gate.

"Make room for her. She is assigned to Group 1." The guards stomp away.

Molly freezes, ducking down between me and Kira until the Jem'Hadar go. Then she takes Kira's hand and sits next to her, shaking her gently.

Kira wakes, a little, slowly opening her eyes, trying to focus. With visible effort, she lifts her head and faints again.

I carefully pick her up, Molly trailing close behind, and sit at one of the benches.

Kira stirs again. "Julian?" she asks, confused, her voice weak. "Where am I?"

I understand too well. I remember waking in the camp. "Deep Space Nine. They still call it that."

She tries to sit up but can't, collapsing back in my arms. Looking around the little compound that belongs to us as much as anything does anymore, her eyes are haunted. "How long?" she asked quietly, her voice faint.

She takes a deep breath, dragging her legs over the bench and sitting on her own, still using my arm for support. Molly holds her hand, her head in Kira's lap.

Ezri sits next to her, adding her arm to mine. "Maybe a month or so. We aren't sure. We spent a lot of time in the cargo bays below."

She looks at the gates. There is no feeling in her voice at all. "You'd almost think the Cardassians were back," she murmurs. "But that's impossible. They're all dead."

I must know. "What happened to Garak?" I say, almost wishing I hadn't asked.

She sounds exhausted now, her eyes drooping much as Yoshi's had before. "He was executed. I was supposed to be, but they didn't shoot me. Instead, they tossed me in with the prisoners cleaning up the bodies." There is still a dullness to her tone that is more stunning than the news itself.

How many of us did they keep on the station? Miles has said there are other groups, but nobody knows how many. The rest went to Cardassia, to the hell Kira has seen. I never saw Jake once he was pushed ahead of Ezri that first day, was he there? And Kassidy, she was pregnant. They wouldn't know right away, but later?

Kira doesn't have to describe it. We can see it all from the look in her eyes, the complete lack of emotion. I can't think of my friends now. I can't think of what happened to them.

And Garak . . . it isn't a surprise. I expected him to be dead. It's just hard to be so certain. I've lost most of my friends, either here or at the end of that last ditch battle over Cardassia.

"The ones captured over Cardassia?" someone asks-Scalman, I think.

"And others. They intend to leave it stripped bare and incapable of supporting life. It would be kind of ironic if that wasn't there," she adds, looking at the gate. "They should call it Terok Nor. It looks like it." She looks around, searching out familiar faces.

Ezri asks the question I can't bring myself to. "Did you see anyone else from here?"

She just shakes her head, "They have thousands of people there right now. Don't expect many of them to come back."

A silence descends over the nearby crowd, slowly gathering as the news spreads. Too many friends are there. Too many of them will die there. Nobody really wants to hear details, not right away.

We have to live with these monsters. But it's very hard when you know that most of your friends will die like that.

She looks down at Molly, hugging whatever of Kira the little girl can reach. She doesn't ask, but Ezri answers, "Miles and Keiko are having some private time. They'll be so glad to see you."

Ezri is smiling, just a little, a faint, wistful smile more like . . . Then her free hand reaches behind to adjust that pony tail she doesn't have again. "You need to eat," she says to Kira, her show of strength fading fast.

Kira smiles, just a ghost of a smile but it's a change. "Sisko?" she asks.

"He left," says a voice behind us, hard and bitter.

"Left?" she asks, puzzled.

"He had some kind of vision, from the way Worf described it. Just before the Dominion fleet arrived, he took a runabout and when to Bajor," I inform her. "Nobody knows why or what happened to him."

She stares at me. "The Captain wouldn't do that," her voice trails off. "Unless, unless it was so important he had to go."

"Maybe," I speculate. "But I'll warn you, that wouldn't be a popular interpretation."

"What about Worf?" she asks.

Ezri answers, her tone gentle. "He went to Stovakor fighting."

For a moment, Kira and Ezri exchange a look. Ezri fades back into herself a little and Kira sighs.

She looks at me, sad and resigned. But she knows it's realistic. She's been through this kind of life before and Worf's choice was one she's familiar with. And she knows what people would think of a commander who ran, even if he was called by some mysterious vision. "Odo?" she asks.

"I don't know," I reply, which is the truth.

"He was very sick," she says. "He hadn't died?" she asks in a guarded tone, the first hint of any emotion at all.

"No," I say. But I've heard about the sudden stoppages in the work teams, and the intense scanning that follows. I shake my head a little, a hint not to ask, hoping she's aware enough to notice. The last time she saw him he had perhaps two weeks to live, if that. If I don't know what happened to him she must know he survived. She looks up at me and there is a brief moment of understanding. She takes a deep breath and nods. "Most of the people here were shipped to Cardassia."

"I know," she says, her voice flat. Listening to her tone we decide to drop the subject. We don't want to know.

I think of Ezri and others being sent away when they ask me to save their gods and I can't do it. I look away, tell myself that Kira is my first concern right now.

"You can have this," says Catherine. It is an almost full bowl of food. "Tessie was feeling a little sick and didn't want it." We sit the bowl in front of her, help her turn towards the table. I hand her the spoon. She looks at it, pausing only a second before she devourers it. "Thank you," she says before she collapses.

Catherine takes Molly's hand. "I'll take her home," she offers, Molly tugging at her hand, trying to get loose.

We pull Kira to her feet. Ezri helps steady her. Between us, we take her to the one extra bed, abandoned after the former tenant tried stealing from them a few days after our arrival here. We never saw her or her husband again. Kira collapses on the bed, falling asleep immediately.

Ezri is in an odd mood, overly quiet and distant. She hasn't said much at all today. I know the guards are pushing them, but I don't think she's hurt. But I remember she and Kira emerging from the holosuites in a series of costumes, laughing and talking, how close friends they were. With Miles here I still hold a piece of my life, a friendship even this place can't destroy. Perhaps finding Kira alive has given the same connection to Ezri, or at least a part of her.

And then there was Tessie, the way Ezri looked at her, so longingly . . .

"Let's get you to bed," I suggest, putting my arm around her. "Kira will be fine. She needs food and rest now."

As if she'll get enough of either . . . I half expect Ezri to make a comment but she just nods.

I push open our door and she sits on the bed, Yoshi nestled in a pile of blankets, stroking him tenderly. "I missed Kira," she says. She leans over him, picking up the child and cradling him in her arms.

With a free hand she starts to push non-existent strands of hair out of her face. Her eyes-half closed, I can almost see Jadzia.

I love Ezri. I don't want her to fade away.

"I'll take him home," I offer. Reluctantly, she gives him to me. She's looking at me with a wistful half-smile so much like Jadzia wore when I told her she would soon be able to conceive.

I tap gently on the O'Brien's door. Miles opens it, taking his son. He looks at me, pausing.

"How is she?" he asks.

I know he means Kira, but I can't get my mind off Ezri. "Thin and weak, but I think she'll get better."

He closes his eyes. "I wanted to come out but I couldn't. I didn't want to hear about Cardassia, knowing where . . ."

I ask myself if I could cure the beings that sent so many of us to die.

I need to say something. "Look, you talk to Ezri. Is she, do you notice anything different about her?"

Miles disappears into the second room, returning a few minutes later without Yoshi. "She's been real quiet," he says. "Off, somehow. A lot of the rest of them have been that way." He sits down, looking away. "It's not like it is for us. They push them all the time." He looks towards the other room where Keiko is telling Molly a story. "I worry about her, all of them. We're the most skilled group. They get it relatively easy. But even so," he says, shifting his weight, taking a deep breath. "Even so sooner or later something is going to happen."

I nod, thinking of the girl, all the others I'd treated today. "They don't look at me when I treat them," I say.

"I get some funny looks too, especially when I have to set up work teams. But I can't stand the thought of Keiko . . . " he stops, looking forlornly towards his wife.

I leave him to his own private hell while I go back to mine.

Ezri is asleep, holding my pillow. I am tired, exhausted by the emotional evening. But I couldn't sleep. I retrieve the book and sit on the chair, watching Ezri as she sleeps.

There is just enough light to finish reading the nights selection. For a few minutes, my own dilemma is forgotten. Archer discovers an old magazine ad, a search Stanley Broadhurst had begun for a mysterious couple who disappeared about the time of his father. But I run out of book too soon. The mind drifts in the quiet. Even if they have other reasons, they'll discover Odo's recovery soon enough. When they ask me I must say no. I can not save murders. I could not live with myself if I did. But if I refuse, I'll be condemning these people to death. I don't know if I can live with that either, any more than Stanley Broadhurst could with his nightmares.

There is another option, not living at all. As long as I cooperate, there are drugs to make sleep into death.

The long night drags on. Crawling into bed, Ezri puts her arms around me and cuddles. She's too tired to go to the beach, but I wish she was up to it. I need to get away from here. I listen to the little sounds of the sleepers. I can't leave her behind to be deported to that hell once I am gone. I hold her, wishing the night would last forever, and fearing the time that it does.

o0o

There is already a certain normalcy to our days, as if we were not living inside a cage. Each morning, the alarm wakes us and the lights get brighter. Those that need to dress, necessities are taken care of, and we wait in line for breakfast. Then the mush arrives and we eat. Then all but a few go off to work for the day. Everyone in each of these little groups works the same shift, so the place is deserted except for the smaller children and Cindy, her work to watch them during the day.

We all leave together. Ezri and the others, now numbering Kira among them, have a shorter shift. But the work is a lot harder. She usually takes a nap before I am released back to our place. I don't feel different in the morning, but I'm escorted back alone, and walk through the door by myself.

Those of us with "special" assignments are set apart in the evening. I spend my day treating those injured by their work. The others come back dirty and with the occasional bruise they will not explain. I return hungry and tired, impatient to be away from the guards, but otherwise unharmed.

My job isn't easy. My patients have to settle for the very basic medicine I'm allowed to practice. I've had to turn to methods abandoned centuries ago, since I'm not allowed the more advanced tools with technology that could be modified for sabotage, or used to contact others. They have to put up with the pain of some procedures because I don't have enough pain killer to use on everyone. But everybody has recovered, though I suspect anyone likely not to is just taken care of by the Jem'Hadar. I still believe there is much more to this than what I'm doing. But for now, I take refuge in being allowed to be a healer.

Each day, when I walk past the gate, I breathe a sigh of relief that I was left alone once again.

Ezri meets me at the gate. We don't look back as they lock us in anymore. We know how lucky we are to be here.

We sit and eat our meal. We're fed enough to stay healthy. But not enough that it matters we have the same tasteless muck each time.

Then comes the good time, the part that makes all the rest tolerable, when we read.

Last night we finished the detective novel that doubled as classic tragedy. I keep looking at the children and thinking of Stanley Broadhurst who never forgot his father. And I think of his son, and how Archer wonders if the son will inherit his father's demons and share his nightmares. Our own children have already been marred, and will pass that on to their own.

If only we dared refuse to play our part in this play, but the dead look in Kira's eyes when Cardassia is mentioned is enough to remind us that we must not.

Tonight, it is my turn to read. Miles has gotten two new books, an adventure we haven't yet read, and a trip to the land of Oz. He won't say how or where and we don't ask. I'm sure, for Miles, it helps a little to make up for the guilt.

We will begin our journey to Oz tonight.

Everyone has gathered and I open the book. One of the guards has paused, watching, and I wait until he leaves.

"The Emerald City of Oz, Chapter 1, The Nome King Became Angry," I read. I look up and everyone is watching, anticipating the story. I begin.

"The Nome King was in an angry mood, and at such times he was very disagreeable. Every one kept away from him, even his Chief Steward Kaliko."

"Therefore the King stormed and raved all by himself, walking up and down in his jewel-studded cavern and getting angrier all the time. Then he remembered that it was no fun being angry unless he had some one to frighten and make miserable, and he rushed to his big gong and made it clatter as loud as he could."

"In came the Chief Steward, trying not to show the Nome King how frightened he was."

" 'Send the Chief Counselor here!' shouted the angry monarch."

I pause, wondering if Weyoun ever shouts. He certainly pushed Damar far enough to turn against him.

Actually, it was amusing thinking of Weyoun storming and raving round the room.

I read on, as the Chief Counselor tries to placate the angry king. I enjoy the image of Weyoun scurrying to please the Founder.

He doesn't succeed. " 'Take this Chief Counselor and throw him away,'" orders the frustrated king. The guards drag him away in chains.

I wonder if I'm the only one who likes that image, with the Founder and Weyoun standing in for the Nomes.

The new Chief Counselor tries even harder to please. I envision the newly activated Weyoun, hoping for a longer run than his predecessor.

I read on. The General is called, and the King demands that Oz be taken and his stolen Magic Belt be recovered. But Oz is a fairy country. It won't be easy to do.

I wish we were in a fairy country, where magic belts existed and magic was real.

But even in Oz, the General finds a plan. I tell myself it's a fantasy meant for children. It can't have too much reality intertwined inside it.

"But they, for their part, did not know they had such a dangerous enemy. Indeed, Ozma and Dorothy had both almost forgotten that such a person as the Nome King yet lived under the mountains of the Land of Ev - which lay just across the deadly desert to the south of the Land of Oz."

"An unsuspected enemy is doubly dangerous."

I close the book, first studying the illustration of the shaggy, maddened king. Are his eyes violet or amber-toned, I wonder?

We only read one chapter a night. The last book was finished too soon.

The evening ends on a very quiet note.

Sometimes even fantasy isn't enough. Surely, the plan will fail. Oz will be saved. The Nome king will pay for his evil war.

The changelings will pay for their deeds too. But it won't bring back the dead.

Ezri and I retire to bed. This is the time we talk quietly about the day. I don't go into any detail, and she keeps it very general, but we touch each other's lives a little.

She is limping slightly. "Ezri, can I check your leg?" I ask.

She pulls away. "It's nothing," she says, resigned. "It will go away on its own."

I should quit now. But I'm worried about the way she's holding herself. "Can't I at least look?"

"Really, it will be alright." There is panic in her voice, fear that I'll insist and force her into showing how bad the injuries are.

I tell myself there is nothing I can do. It will only make it harder on her if I push it. "If you insist," I say.

She eyes me, still uncertain. But something's wrong. I don't recognize her. Her face is different in subtle ways. Her voice carries a different cadence. Her whole body is held in an unfamiliar way. I don't know who she is.

She gets this way when pressured. I assume it's one of her previous hosts, now risen to deal with the stress Ezri is incapable of alone. But I don't know this one.

She was just starting to integrate all her selves into one when we were captured. I'm afraid she's starting to split apart under the stress.

I don't want to lose her. I need her too much. She needs me just as much.

"We heard some things from the new people," she says, still a stranger. They have expanded their captive workforce, and are converting the lower level, where we were held in the cargo bay, to smaller holding pens. Some of the new people were captured only recently, and have more current information.

It is never good. The Romulans had more left after the failed invasion, and the Dominion targeted them first.

"The Romulans are on the verge of surrender," she says.

The Klingons, already badly hurt by the war and the previous one with the Federation, have turned to suicide missions to hold back the inevitable. The Federation has drawn themselves back into the core of their territory, abandoning everything on the boarders, hoping to save a little of it. But the Dominion and Breen are well supplied, ships slipping through the wormhole daily and there is an endless line of new Jem'Hadar to replace the ones that are killed.

Time is running out. The Dominion will win the war. Maybe we will be sent back to an occupied Earth, where this place will be repeated over and again. Perhaps we'll just stay here.

Or maybe they'll ship us through the wormhole as they have already begun to do with others.

Sharing the silence, I wonder what sort of hell Internment Camp 371 has become. There were things I never told them when I was debriefed because I didn't want to remember them. Now they have more of us to play with. I shut it out of my mind.

It didn't help the nightmares before. I'll probably dream of it tonight. Ezri is hurting too much for the beach. Or maybe the self she's become doesn't like the ocean. We have to stay here tonight.

We don't try to guess what awaits us. We just hang onto now, as the only certainty we have, and hope things don't change too much before it's all over.

o0o

My stomach is grumbling and I'd like to go home. If nobody else is brought in, I can leave early tonight. It's been so busy today that I haven't had time to think about why I'm really here.

But I'm starting to believe they have enough reasons for this clinic to justify my presence. There are almost no concerns about safety. I keep the less-injured ready to work. I don't like the job. I didn't like that most of the patients released during the war were sent back to the front. But I manage the same way, by shutting it out of my mind.

I tell myself if I wasn't here, they'd die of infections and complications. Or the Jem'Hadar would simply shoot them. But sometimes, privately, I wonder if I'm really helping them all that much. Am I saving them from this accident or that guard so they can die the next time? I wish I could ask them, know what they wanted, but they cooperate when I'm working and they are relaxed when I'm done. Perhaps it's because I finished and will leave them alone. But I'd like to think they are grateful too, even if they won't say it. Now they get to have another chance to survive.

Then the door opens, several people holding up someone else, her arm and head all bloody. I haven't had this bad an injury yet. I wish I had a nurse. "Can one of them stay?" I ask the guard. "I'll need help with the bleeding."

He points at the woman supporting my patient. "She may stay," he says.

My patient is laid down carefully on one of the beds. I cut back the soaked clothes, totally absorbed in the work. I don't notice at first that I know her.

Then I turn my attention to the head wound and realize it is Kira. She has a gash in her upper arm, and a bad cut on her head. I instruct my helper, who is unfamiliar to me, to press against the cut on her head while I work on the arm.

Kira has fainted, I assume from the bleeding. I force all the feeling away while I get the arm wound cleaned and closed. It's a jagged cut, the skin ripped unevenly. It's closed up well enough but it won't heal quickly.

The head wound has stopped bleeding. I gently clean it off, grateful that she's still out. It's not as bad a cut as on the arm, but she has lost a lot of blood.

Before she wakes I finish stitching the head wound, and check her overall condition. She's weak, and should stay in bed the next day. I decide to list my diagnosis in the records, though I know it won't mean anything.

Cleaned up you can see the large bruise on her cheek, and it wasn't from the fall. Finally, I ask, "How did this happen?"

"She slipped," says the woman nervously. "Lost her balance."

"This have anything to do with it?" I asked, pointing at the bruise.

She nods. "She fell on some metal rods being installed. That's where the cuts came from," she says carefully. But not the bruise, I think. She doesn't have to say it.

Sometimes Kira is too stubborn for her own good. I remember how I'd learned how to deal with the Jem'Hadar-and how not to.

Weyoun lets me excuse patients from work. This time, I have little doubt that he'll agree. I know they won't let her die of an infection or start bleeding again. She is too important to them. I've heard about the searches. It's satisfying that they can't find a changeling who doesn't want to be found either.

The woman is sent back to her group. I wait for Kira to wake up. I'll take her with me when I know she is ready.

I hope she wakes soon. My stomach is grumbling louder.

She stirs. She should rest a little longer, but if we're too late we'll miss dinner. There should still be time if we leave soon. She touches her bruised cheek first.

"Jem'Hadar," she whispers. "I wouldn't move out of his way. He knocked me down." She winces. "How bad?"

"You lost a lot of blood, but you should heal. A dermal regenerator would be nice." I gaze at my basic instruments and wonder how many like Kira are left to bleed to death instead.

"Louder. You might get one." She winces, but then grins. "They wouldn't want the bait to die on them."

I enter my log. "Patient log, Dr. Julian Bashir," I begin. I always use the word doctor. "Patient Kira Nerys has several severe lacerations, which I was able to close. However, due to weakness from loss of blood and the danger of infection she must rest until the cuts have substantially healed."

We'll find out how well they are listening tomorrow.

"I'm very tired," she says. "I'd like to sleep," exhaustion and shock taking over.

"Eat first. I'm going to steady you on the way back." I wrap a blanket around her ruined clothes. She tries to sit and fails.

All bravado gone, she says, "Just get me back."

Nearly carrying her, I bring her home. Ezri helps her into bed and gets her to eat before she falls asleep.

Sitting, eating my own cold food, a guard stops by the gate and calls my name. I hesitantly come forward, worried I'm to be taken somewhere. But he simply stands in front of me.

"Kira Neres has been excused from work until you allow her return," he gruffly informs me and leaves.

Standing by the gate, I allow myself to feel a little important, though it's not much of a surprise. If only the same standard applied to less important hostages then I might really be allowed to be a doctor.

o0o

Yesterday, a Jem'Hadar was killed. Someone ripped him open, tearing as if with the large claws of an animal, and left him to slowly bleed to death. He died in a corridor of the highest security section of the station where only the most trusted of our masters are allowed, during the middle of the night when none of us were out of our cages. Nonetheless, our morning meal was reduced by half for the day.

Kira is standing by the gate, watching the people as they walk past along with their guards. The light reflects off of her red hair and adds a splash of color in what is otherwise almost completely drab. She is still off work, her arm with the jagged gash taking a long time to heal.

The reduced diet won't help her, but she already knows about that. She hasn't said a word, but I can see the worry in her tense body and grim face. She's been in places like this, and knows how they react even if we aren't to blame.

She knows Odo is alive and well, and has heard all the same rumors about an elusive saboteur on the station that they can't find. She must know that Odo has taken special revenge for her alone.

But we will pay. It will be a very long day with breakfast so meager. No one knows if dinner will be the same, if rations have been reduced for a few meals or indefinitely. I am not very optimistic about the former. At Internment Camp 371, Deyos cut rations every time there was trouble. I have been there too.

It must have been the same Jem'Hadar that hurt Kira. They know Odo is out there. He has just informed them that he won't allow her to be hurt.

She's a pawn in the game. It would be so easy for them to make her a special target and set a trap.

And when they find him, what then? The Jem'Hadar will not harm him. Weyoun will probably listen to what he says. He can't help it. It's in his genes.

But the other shapeshifters would not be so kind to a traitor. They'll confirm, if they have any doubts, that he's been cured. They'll go looking for his doctor.

Several of our people in the group are ill. Cassie Realand has a very bad cough, and while I can offer suggestions on what might ease it, there is little else I can do. I could smuggle something out of the infirmary, risking being searched, but I don't really have much that would help. They bring people to me who are injured, and I can treat that kind of emergency. But I don't see the ones who just get sick, like Tain. I haven't been provided with anything to treat them anyway.

Some things haven't changed all that much.

One of my patients died last night. He wasn't badly hurt, and if he'd been left to rest he would have lived. But he wasn't Kira. He went back to work in the morning. He stumbled while working and the guard killed him. Not right away, of course. He died in a holding cell all alone.

I will not cure them. No matter what they ask, I would rather see them dead. What difference does it make to us if the Jem'Hadar kill us out of grief or as part of the job?

o0o

"Chapter six, Guph Visited the Whimsies," says the reader, Carl Jackson, his voice a little hesitant as he adjusts himself on the chair.

Kevin Realand has come to listen with his wife this time. Cassie is lucky for she sounds a lot better. Her daughter Marta follows as well, but avoids her parents, sitting with a fifteen year old boy she has been keeping close company with. By the way they acting, I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been to the beach a few times.

Our dinner was as meager as our breakfast. Nobody was in the mood for reading, but we look forward to it anyway. Yesterday Dorothy became a princess. Her aunt and uncle were getting acquainted with Oz, and we were allowed to dwell in a fairy tale world of pleasantly for a night.

It was a reminder of home, before death and war and ruin had made its image a lie. But it was very nice to go back there for a little while.

Tonight, the Nome king and his dark plot to conquer Oz take the stage again. I don't know what is harder, to be reminded of what was or how it is being destroyed.

My image of the Nome king has become a being of amber eyes and flowing form, flaking a bit on the edges. Several people applauded when he ordered his last general sliced to ribbons.

Why bother? There will always be a new general.

But then, Weyoun would know better than to tell the king it can't be done.

"The new General of the Nome King's army knew perfectly well that to fail in his plans meant death for him."

I wonder to myself if the Vorta fear death, or if the greater fear is to fail the gods.

"Yet Guph determined to be careful, and to lay his plans well, so as not to fail. He argued that only careless people fail in what they attempt to do."

Kira is sitting nearby, holding Molly on her lap. Her arm is healing well. I wonder what Odo plans next, if he is simply reacting or if there is any plan at all.

Guph begins his mission to gain allies in the conquest of Oz, first visiting the Whimsies, who wear painted heads to cover their own.

"They foolishly imagined that no one would suspect the little heads that were inside the imitation ones, not knowing that it is folly to try to appear otherwise than as nature has made us."

I look around the room, with the drab walls and simple furniture. Was Odo among us? Was he a space of flooring, or a plank on the wall? Did he stay near her, risking entrapment, or watch from afar as if he had a Magic Picture? Is his true nature to be anything he dreams or to be a glob of goo?

Guph promises the Whimsies fierce battle and much plunder, which pleases the brightly painted Chief, and upon victory and capture of Ozma's Magic Belt real heads as impressive as the ones they painted on cardboard.

One lone Whimsie is not entirely convinced.

"Suppose we fail to capture the Magic Belt? What will happen then, and what good will all our fighting do?"

Long ago, there must have been a few Cardassians who could see beyond the promises of glory fed them by the Dominion. But nobody listens to doomsayers, not even in Oz. They throw him in the river for his foolish question and ruin his painted head.

The alliance is sealed. Guph makes plans for his next conquest, and the promises they will hear.

Readings are supposed to be an escape, not remind us of the journey that led to this room.

It was a short chapter, and we have time for more. Carl flips through the pages of the next one. "It's about Aunt Em and her uncle, and they meet Dorothy's old friends. Shall I read it too?"

We nod enthusiastically. It is much better to end the night with visions of Cowardly Lions and talking hens with broods all named Dorothy.

Tomorrow, we vote to double up on the chapters again, ending the night with Dorothy rather than the General. Who would have guessed there could be such painful reminders in a book written for children? What sort of world would expect them to understand?

Stomachs rumbling, we go to bed. We try to hold onto the vision of a world where the magic was real, and nobody ever went hungry, but it was becoming as much a dream as Oz.

End, Part 1, Chapter 4 of Surrender


	5. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 5

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this chapter:

The Emerald City of Oz, by L. Frank Baum

The Princess Bride, by William Goldman

Chapter 5

"So, who do you think?" asks Tina, watching as the children play a game with rules only they know. Most of the younger children are playing, even Calla Jackson. But her brother Jeffrey sits nearby, watching, never taking his eyes off his sister.

"Oh, I think the Whimsies. They want those new heads too much. They'll try to make sure. They'll find a way to be right there when they get the magic belt, then take it." Cheryl is very sure of herself.

"Naw," says Catherine, "I vote for the Phanfasms. They think they can do it. I mean, they fooled the General. They must be sure they can fool the Nome king too."

I sit and listen in, half-watching the children, especially Jeffrey, ready to defend his sister from anyone, Jem'Hadar to another little girl. The conversation is extremely serious. Everybody is guessing who will betray the Nomes first.

Cheryl disagrees. "No, the Phanfasms are a little *too* sure of themselves. They'll continue to be sure they can grab what they want right up the moment somebody else does. Then they'll slink off, maybe try to find the General and take it out on him again."

Tina smiles a little. "What do you think they'll do with him when they get him?"

All three of them grin. For the moment, I tune out the conversation before it turns vicious and detailed.

Cindy sits next to me, her bowl almost empty. She's cleaning it out with her fingers. She'd been listening too. "They're wrong, you know. They'll all try, once they get close enough to Oz to get what they want. Then the Nome king will let them take care of each other while he takes it all. Maybe he'll throw in the General as a distraction to keep them busy."

"What about Ozma? Doesn't she have anything to say about this?"

"Who gets her? They'll let the Nome king have her. All they really want is the belt." Cindy shrugs.

"No, about all this taking. She's got pretty good magic too." I can't allow myself to think of Ozma losing.

"But he's got more. All these allies of his will stick around until it's done. Then they'll fight over the booty. They're greedy, but not stupid." She pauses, thoughtfully. "Well, maybe Ozma would matter a little. Like you said, she's got pretty good magic. They'd probably offer her a deal to use it against the others."

I wish Ezri would hurry up and get back. I'd like to start the reading tonight and stop discussing the characters. But I have to defend Ozma. "She wouldn't do it."

Cindy gives me a look. "Sure she would. Save Dorothy and family, maybe the Wizard, let she and her friends have some privileges the rest don't get. Though I wouldn't count on the chickens lasting too long."

"I'll concede the last part," I agree, "But I just don't think Ozma would do it. She's too wise, too pure."

"She's smart. The smart survive," concludes Cindy.

The others are still considering the fate of the General. I decide to go and look for Ezri.

I find her in our quarters, Marta Realand sitting next to her. The girl is in tears.

Ezri looks up, shaking her head. I back off. There had been an argument with her parents the day before, and she'd gone to stay with her boyfriend that night. Ezri is playing counselor now, trying to help the girl through whatever crisis she's had. It is a relief to find something "normal" after the assumption that Ozma will lose her kingdom and her dignity. We have to have something to believe in.

Marta is still there when Ezri asks me back. She's lying on our bed, still crying. I notice her clothes are pulled back from her shoulder, the blankets covering her. Ezri pulls them back. Her arm and what I can see of her back is purple.

"Guards?" I ask, suspecting it isn't.

"Her father," says Ezri. "She's pregnant."

She won't be alone. There are no more monthly injections and you can tell by the noise at night that a lot of couples visit the beach often. But she's barely fourteen.

"Can you, ugh, do something about it?" asks Marta, tears still running down her face.

"No, nothing I'd recommend." Or risk, I add to myself. That would mean smuggling something out of the infirmary.

"Father said I was a tramp. He won't have one in his family."

I begin to suspect there is more to this than I want to know. "Your boyfriend is the father?"

She hesitates. "Probably."

Ezri sits next to her. "Does it matter?"

Marta starts crying again. "To my father." She takes a deep breath. "The first few days after we came here, during work some men, not Jem'Hadar, took me to a room. They had . . . things, fruit, food."

She looks at us, expecting her fathers anger. I stay back and let Ezri talk to her.

"You slept with them," says Ezri, calmly.

"Sort of," she says, collapsing into Ezri's arms. "I wanted the food, so I thought, well," she says biting her lips. "But then they got so rough. I asked them to stop, but they didn't."

She stares at the wall. "Were you raped?" asks Ezri.

"I don't know. I just know what they did." Then she slumps over, her voice low. "The thing is, I went back. I knew what they wanted, how they liked me to be, and I . . ." She stares at the floor. "I let them. They'd tape my mouth so I couldn't scream. I don't know that they were supposed to be doing it, like they might get into trouble."

I remember the man who married us, how nicely he was dressed. The girl is young, attractive, even beautiful by many standards. Like the maiden in Cindy's story, they wouldn't worry if she agreed.

"What are they, what species?" I ask.

"Human and Bajoran. They work for *them*." She collapses on the bed. "I went back because my mother was sick. They gave me medicine. It didn't matter to my father."

I think of the conversation about the Nome General, the assumption that Ozma would do whatever it takes to survive, and somehow Marta's problem is hardly a surprise.

"You're sure about the pregnancy?" I ask. "It hasn't been all that long."

"Pretty sure." She crumples on the bed. "It won't matter to my father. I'm a tramp to him. He said he *has* to fix the com system. I'm not sure what's so different than what I did"

There is a very uncomfortable silence in the room. I wish I'd decided to listen to the conversation about Guph's dismemberment instead. If the girl expects sympathy, I can't give it to her.

"He has to," I finally say, "just like the others. He's protecting you and your mother from them. He doesn't want to. He doesn't feel proud of what he's doing. But he doesn't want to see you deported either."

She's stopped crying. She just looks at me, angry now. "And my mother was *dying* and nothing you have could help her. She needed better medicine. I found a way to get it. But what I did was be a whore. What you do is save your family. Liar. What's the difference?"

She's in dangerous territory. But I can't quit now. Everybody here is compromised. None would appreciate the reminder. "We weren't asked. We all understand how this place works. Your father doesn't need you going and selling yourself to remind him."

She is about to reply, steaming now, when Ezri stands between us. "Stop, both of you." She stares me down, and snaps back at Marta when she starts to talk, "I said quiet."

We stop, astonished by the woman who has materialized in Ezri's place.

She points at the chair and I sit. Marta is still sitting on the bed. "Marta, your father didn't need to hit you. But he didn't need to find out you'd gone behind his back and slept with a bunch of collaborators. Julian is right, he has his reasons for doing what he does. Maybe you do too, but you're so ashamed of it you sneak. He's not hiding. If you look close enough you'll see he isn't hiding the shame either." She fixes Marta with a look. "Now go find yourself a seat. We should start our reading. We'll find a place for you to sleep tonight."

Marta dashes away, obviously relieved to escape. I start to stand but she's not done. "Not yet. I'm ashamed of you. She's a scared kid and you have to go and call her a whore."

"I didn't say that," I say, trying to defend myself.

"You said she sold herself. That's close enough. People will find out. She's going to have a hard time here from now on."

I have never met this woman standing before me, so strong and forceful. I keep thinking of Worf, how he knew about this part of her. But she's right, too. I should not have argued. We all compromise, all shut the truth from our minds, but deep down there is no difference.

"I won't say anything." I take her hand. "We've got a book to read."

Dorothy and party scare the Fuddles, who fall into pieces, and they have to put them back together. And Guph tells the King of his successes, leaving out a few details that get in the way of a good story.

Guph would certainly know how to deal with Weyoun. But I watch Marta as she sits by herself, hurting from her father's beating, but even more from the stares. Whoever told her father didn't keep it to themselves.

We finish the nights reading, and Marta is still sitting there. Kira is standing to the side, watching. Ezri backs off as Kira sits next to her.

"Was it worth it?" she asks.

Marta looks away. Her mother has followed her fathers lead and left without speaking to her. But she watched as they walked past. "I suppose. My mother is still here to listen to books."

"Then you did a good thing," demands Kira.

Marta looks at the floor. "They hurt me. I wasn't having fun."

Kira comes closer. "I didn't say that. Were you doing a good thing, even if the people who benefit wouldn't understand?"

"What I had to," mumbles Marta.

I think of Kira's mother, sleeping with Dukat, becoming his willing lover to help her family left on Bajor. I think I see where she's leading.

"Would it make a difference if it hadn't been rape, if it had been *fun*?"

"It wasn't," insists Marta again. "I mean not rape. I said I would. They are mean bastards but they kept their end of the deal."

"So it was all right if you didn't like it, if they hurt you along the way?" Kira is very close to her, Marta nervously edging away.

"It wasn't for fun," snaps Marta. "It would never be fun, no matter how *nice* they decided to be. I wanted the medicine and got it."

"So you're a whore," says Kira.

"If you say so." Marta edges away. "Can I go?"

"Where?" asks Kira. "They won't let you sleep here. Your boyfriend won't come near. Where?"

Marta is tired and hungry and exhausted. She surrenders. "I don't know," she finally mutters to herself.

"I have a floor," Kira offers. "One condition. You don't go near them again."

Marta is scared and hurting. She'll take whatever deal she can get now. "What if they make me?"

Kira's voice is softer now. "They won't. They broke the rules when they snatched you and they'll be dead for giving you the medicine."

Marta stops, staring at Kira. "Why are you doing this?"

Kira's look is hard, but her eyes honest. "I knew somebody who could have used a little help, and all she got was used up."

Marta follows her. "I have to get my things."

"I'll get them," says Kira.

We watch as the two women leave and the lights dim. It's time to get to bed. Maybe Marta has a chance. Perhaps Kira will find a way to banish some of the ghosts.

Ezri arraigns our pillows, and starts to open my clothes. "Twilight tonight, with a full moon?"

"Half-moon, I think. I like dawn."

She kisses me, her hands inside my clothes, sliding them down my back. "Whatever you want," she murmurs as she pulls my coveralls off my shoulders and the room disappears, the foam of the sea splashing me in the face, the scent of the flowers filling the air. Ezri growls at me, and for a while all the rest is gone.

o0o

We don't get days off. I used to dream of one, but now I just want to go to my little infirmary and think about medicine. I want to count my supplies, tidy the room, make sure I update my files. I need something to get my mind off the reason for our unexpected freedom for the day.

The Romulans have surrendered. We already knew how the Dominion's plan to divide the three allies had succeeded, isolating the Romulans, cutting them off from any support from others. They had good defenses, but alone against an intense Dominion assault they didn't last very long.

The Klingons will probably be next. No one really expects the Federation to hold out long alone.

Our side is losing the war, will lose the war. We will not be the last to be made into slaves.

For them, today is a celebration. For us, it is a time of mourning.

We eat our breakfast quietly, the third full one in a row, and most go back to their rooms to be alone. Ezri and I sit with Miles and Kira, while Keiko takes the children out to play.

You need old friends at a time like this. Too many of them are gone and we cling desperately to the ones that are left.

There has always been something to do. Either we've been busy eating, working, or doing our nightly reading. Readings are almost a ritual now. Today there is nothing to distract us from the gloomy reality of life and we try to avoid the words we can't say.

"We've got the station in shape again," says Miles, depressed. "It was pretty much a wreck when we started." He looks at us, then away. "I had to do it. I kept thinking of Keiko and Molly and Yoshi. I didn't want them cleaning up dead Cardassians." He shakes his head. "But I don't want them to grow up like this, either."

Kira puts her hand on his arm. Miles finally looks up at her. "You're giving up," she says quietly. "Never give up."

I realize that I understand, even if I can muster little enthusiasm for the idea. I remember how bleak it had been at the camp. Nobody even knew I was gone. I expected to die there. But then I'd discovered Tain's work, and everything changed. "You're right," I say quietly. "It's not over."

But they are just words. I don't know if I can believe them. As long as I have busy days I can still pretend, but for how long?

Miles mumbles, very quietly, "It's been over for a long time. It was final when they got the wormhole again." He shifts around, uncomfortable. "I . . . hear things," he says, at almost a whisper. "And I see the fleet out there. This place is as busy or more than when it was ours."

I remember the masses of ships I'd seen before. It must have taken a huge fleet to cut off the Romulans. I look at the bare room, and see our future. Or, perhaps, I *hope* this is our future.

Even with Tain, we had to rescue ourselves. It took the Bajorans fifty years before they won. I don't want to wait that long.

When the station was being taken, I barely missed being ripped open in an explosion. It was one of those momentary little flashes of time lost in the desperation at the end. I'd almost forgotten about it until today. Maybe it would have been better that way. Then Ezri takes my hand. She is here because of me, and not shipped off to Cardassia.

We knew, with Tain, that there was no real certainty that we'd succeed. We knew the chances of rescue were small. If they'd discovered what we were doing we'd have all been dead by the end of the day. But we took the chance and believed it would work.

Believing that it would lead to freedom made all the difference.

"You're being realistic," I say, hating the words. "Realistically, the Klingons will be forced to surrender in time, and the Federation will either go peacefully or in ruins. Realistically, we don't have a future. But it hasn't happened yet. When that part comes we'll deal with it. But not yet."

Kira is looking up at me. Miles is holding one of Molly's toys, staring at it so hard I wonder if he is even listening. "Even then," she says, her voice filled with too many memories, "even then you can never give up or it really is over."

"If you say so," says Miles, still fixed on the toy. I think I understand. Molly will grow up like Kira. I glance at Kira, lost in her own thoughts. I wonder who she would have been if she had had the kind of childhoods we had.

For a while we are silent. I can't wait for tomorrow and more work, something, anything to get my mind off this.

Finally, Ezri looks up. She's said nothing all day, since the news. I wonder, with all the experience in all her lives if it is helping her or making it harder. I'm not entirely sure she's been Ezri all afternoon. She asks slowly, "I'm supposed to read tonight. Are we reading tonight?"

We look at each other. None of us are really in the mood. But they'll notice if we don't. It would be another victory for them.

Miles looks up from the toy. "G5 has a book to trade. If we finish Oz tonight I can trade it tomorrow."

We pass books onto the other groups when we finish them. Miles usually makes the trades. Oz could be finished today with the extra time.

"I think I'm next," I say. "We'll start early. Maybe we can read one part before dinner and the rest after."

I don't know if the others, hiding in their little rooms to grieve, will like the idea. But they'll still come.

Somehow, we'll hang on a little longer. I put my arms around Ezri, and let her be my reason to go on.

o0o

Dorothy and her family, the Wizard traveling along, have taken a trip. They have encountered a good many curious little kingdoms. Dorothy has been lost and found again. Aunt Em and Uncle Henry were still not entirely comfortable, but felt very welcome. Life was set to go on as it had forever in the fairy kingdom of Oz.

But unsuspected by the dwellers in the kindly lands of Oz, the Nome king continues to monitor the progress of his high and wide tunnel, and the General continues to promise. Eventually the Nomes will take it all for themselves, and the King will use the Magic Belt for whatever he pleases. But greed is blind, and the General knows how to use it.

We follow his progress with growing fascination and some worry. This is Oz, a fairy land. King Roquet the Red will not be permitted to take his prize and destroy the wonder. Even then, children needed happy endings.

I watch Cindy as she finds a place to sit near the back. Her husband has been working very long hours and she disappears when he is here. I wonder if she would really prefer that Oz fall to the Nomes, if that would make our own lives, and the one of the child she carries, a little easier.

We need a happy ending, even if it's only to a book. But then, the unthinkable was already in progress. Our own fairy world was being battered by an enemy every bit as determined as the Nome king.

We weren't going to have a happy ending.

We are beginning chapter 24, and there is a hush when it is revealed that Ozma has seen the tunnel in her Magic Picture. We are unexpectedly stunned when we learn that even all the inhabitants of Oz, gathered together, do not have the power to defeat the combined forces of the Nome King. They will not fight back at all.

The lovely land will be plundered and its fairy people enslaved. Those that are not fairy's like Dorothy and her family, will be put to death.

It is a little too easy for us to see it in our minds. We barely make a sound while the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and Jack Pumpkinhead decide to accompany Dorothy and her group back to the Emerald City and share the end with Ozma.

Dinner comes and we eat it quickly. We have to know the end. We could not sleep for the suspense.

Miles is reading next. He sits uncomfortably in the chair and stares at the book. Finally, after a deep breath, he begins to read.

"Chapter 26," he says, pausing a second time, "Ozma Refuses to Fight for her Kingdom."

Ozma doesn't seem concerned. But then, a lot of us believed the Dominion could never win.

Miles stumbles over the words when he reads about Dorothy's preparations for dinner.

"So they went to their rooms and prepared for dinner, and Dorothy dressed herself in her prettiest gown and put on her coronet, for she thought that this might be the last time she would appear as a Princess of Oz."

I remember the promise Ezri and I made to each other, that morning before the battle. I remember the night before, and the joy of our first making love. Now they are inexplicably intertwined, and I cannot think of one without the other.

Their dinner is silent and uneasy, and Ozma looks into the Magic Picture at the assembled Whimsies, Growleywogs, Phanfasms, and of course the Nomes.

Miles pauses again, his voice a little broken.

" 'If we start at midnight,' replied the Nome King, 'we shall arrive at the Emerald City by daybreak. Then, while all the Oz people are sleeping, we will capture them and make them our slaves. After that we will destroy the city itself and march through the Land of Oz, burning and devastating as we go.' "

" 'Good!' cried the First and Foremost. 'When we get through with Oz it will be a desert wilderness. Ozma shall be my slave.'"

Miles stops, gets up and hands the book to me.

"I can't . . ." he says.

Ralph Townsend, who once shared a little cell with us, slowly makes his way forward, taking the book from me and stands as he reads. His voice is low, and he puts very little emphasis on anything. His son died two weeks ago and he's hardly said a word since. I'm surprised he's reading at all. But his son's death was too slow, too painful, and Ralph suffered with him. For the boy, death was a gift.

He reads well, if without much inflection. As the chapter goes on, he starts to come alive again. The leaders of Roquet's armies argue over who gets to keep Ozma as a slave. The king changes the subject.

Dorothy and her friend desperately try to convince Ozma to resist them, even suggesting sending the inhabitants of Oz to Kansas with some Emeralds to support them.

Ozma refuses them all. " 'No one has the right to destroy any living creatures, however evil they may be, or to hurt them or make them unhappy. I will not fight-even to save my kingdom.' " Ralph delivers the line as if he believed it.

Then the Scarecrow comes up with a plan.

Dorothy could not sleep. Nor could we. It is late, and yet we vote to finish the last three chapters of the book.

We have more volunteers to read than we need. But Cheryl Jackson is an excellent reader. " 'He's only a Scarecrow,' she said to herself, 'and I'm not sure that his mixed brains are as clever as he thinks they are.'"

"But she knew that if the Scarecrow's plan failed they were all lost; so she tried to have faith in him."

I look at Kira. She's near the back, Marta standing behind everyone else. Kira is lost in memories. Miles merely stares at the wall. I wish he could understand Kira's warning. The children are sleepy, Yoshi asleep in his mother's arms, but Molly listening with great concentration.

There is not a sound as Cheryl pauses, clears her throat, and begin's again with much more expression. The Nome King sends his allies ahead to begin the invasion, and Guph suggests a plan to eliminate them after they've served their purpose, leaving Oz to the Nomes alone. They march ahead, and the tunnel becomes more and more dusty as they go. They hurry along so they may have a drink of water at the end.

Ozma and her friends wait and watch while the invading armies choke and cough on the dust she sent there with her Magic Belt. The good people of Oz wait for the invaders to break the crust of earth that is all that remains.

Except for the voice of the reader, now an older woman, we sit in absolute, complete silence waiting for the end.

The crust of earth gives way with a crash. The armies of the Phanfasms poured out, first drinking from the waters of the Forbidden Fountain, and forgetting everything. Then the Growleywogs and the Whimsies follow, each in turn forgetting why they had come to be in Oz. Then, last, the Nomes drank as well.

All the great warriors were reduced to little children. The Nome King, pushed out of the way by the thirsty General, shouts at them but it does no good. Tired of his raving, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman toss him in the water.

The invasion done, Ozma sends them home.

We have listened in silence, haunted by too many memories. But something odd starts at the back of the room. I look back, and Cindy is cheering. Others have joined in, clapping and cheering and celebrating the safety of Oz. In a minute everyone joins in the frenzied celebration.

Drawn by the noise, the guards stop by the gate, watching. We ignore them. We cheer the rescue of Oz from evil, and the small hope of our own salvation it has granted.

We don't have a Magic Belt. We only have ourselves and our dreams. But without that we would have nothing left at all.

o0o

We pay for the day off. My infirmary is so busy with careless injuries that I recruit a few of the less hurt to serve as help. Work is being rushed and people are being pushed harder. But that isn't the only reason. Today, they don't care quite as much as the day before the news.

It would be easy to give up, but I can't stop caring. We cannot lose hope, especially if we stop caring what becomes of us. If we allow that to happen we allow them to own us.

It helps that I am so busy today. During the worse battles of the war, I shut it all out so I could work. I do that now. I don't think about how they got hurt, how I'm helping the Dominion by making them useful again, or any other consideration but my job. It is the only way I know to manage.

But sometimes, especially when for a little while things get quiet, I wish it was over. Eventually they'll discover I cured Odo, though I'm sure they don't know yet. The survival of their gods are far more important than us. We can be replaced.

But they are looking for Odo, their efforts even more determined since the Jem'Hadar was killed. When they find him, discover he's quite healthy, they'll eventually discover they already have the man who can save them.

Would Odo tell, I wonder? Would he betray me to them if it might save Kira?

In a small vial, hidden behind a stack of supplies, I still have the means of stopping them with the only way that is guaranteed to succeed. There is enough for Ezri and I, for I would not leave her alive to be punished for my death. But when I have days like this, when I have too many patients, I can't decide. If I choose to die, how do I know the proper time? Do I deny these people a chance to live? Most of the injuries are minor, but here, untreated . . . And if I wait too long there will be no chance. Weyoun will have me watched too closely. I'd be searched if they had any doubts. What do I do? Is suicide even a choice I can allow myself to make anymore? Standing in my infirmary, as primitive and limited as it is, I am a healer. I have already regained a little of myself. Is that the reason I was granted this privileges, so I might be more willing to heal them too?

It's been a long day. Finally, the last of the patients are gone. They have other doctors now, for the other shifts. Sometime I'd like to meet them. I wonder if they handle it better, what they tell themselves in the middle of the night when you can't sleep. Would they just find another doctor to replace me, if . . .

I'm allowed to leave. When I get to our compound, the line for dinner is already long and I'm so tired. But it's odd. Ezri is not waiting and I am torn between dinner and checking on her. There were too many injuries today. I only saw the worst of them. I glance at the cart and the food is getting low. I decide to get in line. She is probably tired. I should let her sleep.

Miles arrives a few minutes later. Keiko is in their quarters as well. Too many people are already in bed. The rest are too quiet, too tense. Most who have eaten have already left, but people usually sit and talk for a time before we have to go to bed. Something is wrong. Perhaps it is just the general depression that has settled over everyone, but I'm not so certain about that.

We share a table and quickly finish our food before we talk. We wander a little ways away. He looks rather more grim than usual.

He glances at the guards. He looks at me curiously. "You don't know," he says, watching me.

"What happened?" I ask, moving away from the others, dreading the answer.

"Ezri can give you the details. She was there." I hesitate, needing to know. She might not want to talk about it.

"I had a lot of patients," I say.

We move into a more sheltered place. Miles mumbles, slowly, "I only got it second hand, no names." He looks around the room. "You didn't get to see any of these. There was an accident. The guard decided it was deliberate. Nobody was hurt very bad, but they took away some people and roughed up a lot more."

He's too quiet, too edgy. There is more he hasn't said. Looking around the room, trying to find people, I ask with much hesitation, "Did we lose anyone?"

There have been other accidents, others taken away. But we've been lucky. None of our people have disappeared or died that way.

He hesitates. "They took Catherine. She fell during the accident."

I keep thinking of Ezri playing with her daughter, how much this will touch her. "Have they done anything with them, have you heard?"

"I don't know. All I know is they were dragged away."

Stunned, I realize someone else is missing. "Is Kira back?" I ask, suddenly suspicious.

"I don't think so."

We exchange a worried look. They are looking for Odo. If she's been detained and threatened, it might be a trap intended for him. If she is hurt bad enough, he would take very particular revenge.

When they take people away they don't come back. Catherine will probably be deported, never see her child again. If Odo chooses to take revenge we both hope it would be someone big, maybe even Weyoun. Even if we have rations cut, it will be very satisfying.

But I have to find out about Ezri and excuse myself. I find her huddled on the bed, both blankets covering her as if she was hiding from someone. I pull back the covers. Her wrists are both bruised and roughened, as if she'd struggled while being tied. She is asleep, but there is a bruise on her cheek. The way she's curled up I suspect there are others as well.

I don't wake her. I don't want to bother her. I just want to kill the guards who hurt her. Eventually, I lay down carefully next to her, looking forward to Odo's revenge this time.

o0o

Much later on, still before curfew in the silent evening, Kira is finally returned. According to Miles, fetching me to look her over, she was shoved inside by two guards. When I arrive she's sitting at a table, finishing a cold bowl of food. I wait until she's done. Others, sitting nearby, have become quiet as well, waiting to see.

Ezri has been sleeping all evening, while I stared at the walls. I'm careful not to touch her, but have examined her wrists. The ropes were very tight. The skin is not only badly bruised, but torn here and there as well. I should at least clean it, should check on the others. But the rage inside me is so much already. There is no place for it to go. There can be no satisfaction but Odo.

Kira finished, I check her over. She's limping, keeping weight off her leg, and there are a lot of bruises. She stares straight ahead as I finish my examination. She will recover.

Miles and I put her to bed. Marta is awake, worried, but has not ventured out. We leave Kira to her care.

"How's Ezri?" asks Miles.

"As far as I can tell, bruises mostly. Her wrists are torn up a little and I need to do something about that. What about Keiko?"

"Pretty much the same. They used their cattle prods too, but not on everybody. But this is a warning. Next time . . . " he says. Miles gets around more than we do. He should know.

"You're saying we're lucky?" I ask, angry and frustrated.

"We haven't lost anybody yet." He stares at the rooms where our women are resting after their batterings. "They don't stop with bruises with the others."

I take a deep breath, force back the explosion inside me that has nowhere to go. "Would it help if I looked over the others?" I ask, taking refuge in the only place I know.

"You can't help the bruises," he says, lost. "Just be glad we still have luck with us."

He stumbles off to be with his family, and the rest of the compound slowly empties. I go back to Ezri.

She is awake, still lying on her side. I kiss her gently on the forehead. She cringes a little when I approach. I accidently brush against her side, and she whimpers.

"What did they do?" I ask.

She doesn't look at me. "It was the Breen," she says. It isn't Ezri or Jadzia or Curzon or Torias, the only of her hosts I could identify. At least it isn't Joran. I also remember him.

Whoever she becomes, I hope *he* stays inside her.

"We were behind," she says, her voice dull and stunned. "We were unloading this ship and a crate was dropped. I don't know what was in it but I guess it was important." She pauses, taking a deep breath and wincing a little. "They took the ones who dropped it away right away. Then they said we were all being careless. We would be punished."

She grows silent. I gently touch her side and she jumps. "Let me look at it."

"They used their prods on us, nothing you can do but wait for the pain to stop." Her tone is halting, still hurting a lot. She hides her face from me. "I remember. I've been questioned by them before."

"I should bandage your wrists at least. The skin's broken."

"Not . . . now," she says, forcing out the words as if lost in a nightmare.

I want to insist, but know better. I worry that she didn't mention Catherine. But there is nothing I can do anyway. "Can you sleep?" I ask.

"It's a little better," she says. "Just don't touch me."

I arrange myself on the narrow bed as best I can, and keep away from her. She falls asleep in a little while, probably from exhaustion, and after a time of staring into greyish light I do as well.

o0o

It has been three days since the accident, and there have been no readings. Nobody was in the mood to do more than get through the day and take care of their family. Too many people had been hurt, or had someone to care for. Too many people would miss the story.

Very little has been said at all. But everyone is waiting for the payoff.

Kira is sitting next to me, both of us finishing our dinners. "Starting to taste pretty good by now, I'll bet," she says.

Kira doesn't start idle conversations unless she has a reason. "I don't think I even notice the taste anymore," I reply, wondering what she has in mind.

"I can walk on my foot again," she adds. "I guess this means I go back out tomorrow."

"I don't make the rules." I've kept her foot wrapped and managed to excuse most of the others for a few days. But I have only so much say in matters. Weyoun is letting the warning sink in or they'd have been out there today. Is he expecting someone else to fall, something worse to draw Odo out of hiding? "Look, Be careful. Please."

I know it wasn't an accidental injury. Kira hasn't said what they did, nor do I expect her too. None of the women will say just how bad it was. She was relatively untouched in comparison to the rest. He was careful, worried about Odo taking too drastic a step. But if Odo doesn't act soon, they'll give him more reason. A real accident with Kira, quite possible given her foot, would do all he needed.

Even the guards are waiting, my day much shorter and quieter. But this glum quiet is starting to get to everyone.

Kira ignores my comment. It is as if she is picking up on my thoughts. "We should read tonight," she says.

"We already have the book. You want to make the announcement?"

She pauses, thinking. "Why don't you. I want to see if I can drag Marta out of the room tonight."

I don't say anything. I know she sees the girl as her mother, someone she's trying to redeem or make amends through, but she would be back in their beds at the drop of a hat without Kira. Nobody talks to her. Nobody wants her around. Kira knows this, but if Marta is keeping her mind off Odo then she is serving some purpose.

I make the announcement for the reading and people slowly dribble out of their rooms.

Catherine's mother, an older woman who'd arrived with Realand and was part of his staff, comes alone, Tessie asleep. It is the first time we've seen her except for meals and work since her daughter was taken.

We don't have a lot of time, and intend a brief reading tonight, just the opening chapter of the adventure. Miles traded for two books, one about an invasion of Earth. We just aren't in the mood for that one.

The adventure is a fairy tale, The Princess Bride, one the original author presumptiously subtitles a Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure.

It's not the whole book. We can't quite decide if the author is really William Goldman or S. Morganstern did write a great tome of a novel that Mr. Goldman's grandfather edited into a good parts version. But we are instantly pulled into the author's life, and the grey walls fade away at the comforting image of his Grandfather reading about, "Fencing, Fighting, True Love, Strong Hate, Harsh Revenge, A Few Giants, Lots of Bad Men, Lots of Good Men, Five or Six Beautiful Women, Beasties Monstrous and Gentle, Some Death, Lies, Truth, Miracles and a Little Sex."

This is a story to lose one's self in, and all we've read is the introduction. I don't particularly care who wrote it now. I just want to go there.

We should stop at the end of the introduction, since everyone is tired and we all need more rest. But there are protests and we take a vote. The guards are standing by the gate, watching while we vote, but we ignore them.

It would be nice to think that they wanted to hear the story, but we know better than that.

"One, the Bride". The reader has a strong voice, and fills the words with expression. We meet Buttercup, as she comes into her beauty. She's the envy of all the other young maidens who's boyfriends can see only Buttercup. But she can see none of them. We laugh at her description of them as "beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunknobbed *boys*."

We are enchanted by the words, as they spill into our imaginations and take us to a place far from here. I have the unbidden thought that I wish I'd read this before. Felix could have done wonders with it. I want to read more, spend the whole night lost in the magic.

But the lights flicker. It is time for bed. Like little Billy Goldman, we don't get to stay up past our bedtime.

Tomorrow will pass more quickly. We'll have the magic of the words to lose ourselves inside that evening. The magic will keep us alive.

We go to bed relaxed, unwilling to leave it behind. There are no longer any holosuites. But nobody can take away the ones inside our heads. Ezri falls asleep quickly, and she's sleeping a little better. But our reality is not so easily forgotten. I accidently brush against her back and she jumps.

She startles me. She cringes a little from the pain, but when she says, "Julian, please," it was with Jadzia's voice.

For a time, she was my Buttercup.

I can cope with almost any of them but Joran. But Jadzia is hard. I loved her and watched her die. The uncanny feeling that she is lying beside me is very disturbing.

We're both asleep, in the middle of the night, when we are jarred awake by a loud boom. The reverberations rattle our bed. The lights go out and it's pitch black. We stay where we are. If they want us to move we'll go, but it's safer for now to stay put.

Odo has struck again. I can't wait to find out where. Every time Ezri jumps I hope it's Weyoun.

We wait in the dark, hearts pounding in anticipation.

It is an immensely satisfying moment.

The lights come on suddenly, at full brightness. We shade our eyes as the alarm rings and I help her up. We are told to wait by the gates by the voice on the speaker.

A group of Jem'Hadar arrive in a few minutes and make sure we're all here. Then they send us back to bed, and in a little while the lights go back to "night".

If I don't hear them myself, Miles will find out all the details. Rumors still spread very efficiently around here. This time it was a bomb, and a powerful one at that. Odo isn't playing anymore.

I sure we'll be the first to pay, since they can't find Odo, but it feels so good right now that I don't mind. Maybe tomorrow we'll regret it, but I'll remember the obvious worry in the Jem'Hadar's voice for a long time to come.

End, Part 1, Chapter 5 of Surrender


	6. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 6

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 - Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this story:

The Princess Bride, by William Goldman

The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells

Chapter 6

By morning, still half asleep after our interrupted night, some of the satisfaction is wearing off. Reality has started to intrude, especially as breakfast is only half as much as usual. We aren't told how long we're on half rations-again.

At Internment Camp 371, Deyos cut our rations whenever there was trouble. I wonder if it is Dominion policy. I suppose we'll find out.

The guards arrive as usual. Or almost as usual. There are no Breen. Ezri has been watching them nervously ever since the accident. It's a relief she doesn't have to deal with them today.

Last night there were no Breen either. Every other patrol had been shared between the two. Most curious.

I follow the guards as I go to the infirmary, but they take a different route this time, skirting the official section of the habitat ring entirely. There are a few corridors that are completely dark. I pretend not to notice.

The Breen hurt our people. Had Odo directed his revenge against them this time?

I'm let into my Infirmary, and once again have a relatively quiet day. I'm looking forward to seeing Miles tonight, and comparing our news. I hope dinner isn't as lean as breakfast. I'm not making any assumptions.

The day finally ends and I get to leave. We take the same circuitous route back home. The black corridors are still there, but the dark area is now blocked off. There are repairs in progress. It would be near our old quarters, the nicer ones the Dominion took over. Or, perhaps, where they had lived. I walk past it without looking, but it still feels good.

People are sitting, watching the gate, when we arrive. The children are playing, their high-pitched voices the only sound. I guess the others are hungry, but there is something else too. Ezri has been resting after work, and I hesitate to wake her. I never hear news early, my job keeping me relatively isolated, but I can guess it is bad. I decide to wait and ask Miles rather than break the spell of the children's noisy play.

I notice Jackson and his family sitting together, finishing their mush. Jeffrey is staring out at it, his eyes grim, watching the gate between bites. Calla isn't playing, between her brother and mother. Carl just looks lost, occasionally looking up at his children. When they're done they'll drift back to their quarters, barricade themselves behind an illusion of safety. Cheryl was hurt, but only a little. She didn't even get a day off though I tried hard to think of a reason. Neither of the children have come out to play since then. I wonder what Carl would do if they made him an offer, took them away from here and the danger we live with. I wonder what Jeffrey would do if he had a meaningful target, how long he'd last.

It's a relief when they finish and leave. I'd much rather see the children who still remember who they are than Jeffrey.

Miles arrives late, a while after I do, and his mood is notably grim. We talk quietly near the children, who despite everything play noisily like children.

He is quiet, barely whispering. He looks stunned. "They executed four prisoners yesterday, for sabotage. They claim confessions. Rumor is the Breen got to question them."

They'd taken four of us after the accident. "Is Catherine one of them?" I ask.

He looks around, watching the children. "Her and the other three." Then he ads, slowly, "They've only heard the rumors. I guess I get to tell them."

I remember Catherine playing with her daughter. Ezri knows about the Breen's methods. I don't know what this will do to her.

"Are you going to wait? Is everyone here?"

"No, but I want to talk to Catherine's mother first. Maybe she'll feel a little better, at least knowing what happened to her. You could tell Ezri."

"Maybe that would be better. She knows about the Breen." Miles won't look at me.

"They won't be questioning anyone else," he whispers, glancing at the guards by the gate, all Jem'Hadar.

"I haven't seen any Breen since the explosion," I half-whisper.

His look is half-worry and half-satisfaction. "Rumor is they left the station after their quarters went boom and the Breen commander was killed."

I nod. It makes sense. But it's time for dinner and we go to wake our wives. I notice the cart is moving a little too fast.

Rations are still cut. Maybe it's standard policy. Odo may have caused a big rift between the Dominion and the Breen, but we may have only begun to pay for it.

o0o

We finished the adventure the day before yesterday. I miss it. I could get lost inside its visions of the beautiful if rather dense princess and the murderous prince. I'm fascinated by the play of swords, and the mystery of the Fireswamp with its hungry quicksands and giant RAUSes. I revel in the climax, and the vengeance of the Man in Black. Some of them were disappointed, wanted to see the Prince with missing body parts shunned and ignored. But I understand. The Man in Black is the bright light of day. If he destroyed the Prince in revenge he would be no better. It is a perfect fantasy, balanced between dark and light, reality and dreams. It twined its vivid world, let us escape in the fantasy it wove around us. It took me away from here.

It reminds me of Felix's best holoprograms, like Vic Fontane's club, where we could forget the war for a little while. I remember how much fun it had been to be Julian Bashir, secret agent, before I shot Garak that day. I never played it again after Sloan made it real. It was no longer a thing of fantasy.

Our children may never see a holoprogram. But we will do our best to teach them how to dream, and make their own inside their heads where nobody can steal them.

Today, before dinner, we started a new book, War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. A history expert among us claims the play, broadcast on radio, once set off a panic when listeners believed that Martians had destroyed the town of Grover's Mill with their heat ray. On the eve of a war that would destroy millions of lives, and effect the entire planet, they ran away from the invading Martians before hearing the special announcement that it wasn't real.

But the book does not begin in New Jersey. It begins with the coming of a missile to the English countryside of my youth. I can smell the flowers on the Woking Green and see little groups of pine trees. I had stood there as a child, and see the cylinder as I might have then too, a mystery to be solved, an adventure to be had. In my mind I watch as the scientists travel across the green to study the curious thing, in animated debate about the nature of the Thing which embedded itself in the Common.

In my child mind, I'd like to follow them, stare at the pit and perhaps dare myself to go closer. For me, it was like going home. But for most it was a little dull, with the meanderings on science and philosophy that fill the first few chapters. I'm caught up in memories of childhood when the first page of tonight's reading ignites our curiosity.

The Martians are opening the cylinder, slowly unscrewing it from the inside. The people scrambled from the pit in which it was buried and the crowd that had gathered backed up hastily.

A Thing with tentacles crawls out. The people run in panic, hiding behind trees and bushes. A Deputation of men with a white flag comes forward, wishing to make a civilized greeting.

I can see them retreat, caught between fear and curiosity, and even see the Deputation as it advances with its little white flag of truce.

I can't forget that once we thought we could negotiate with the Dominion, even make deals. We haven't changed that much in half a millennium.

Then, a sudden flash of light, with a luminous green smoke darkens the sky. The men on the green turn to flame, death leaping from man to man. The trees burst into fire, and the deadly heat ray sweeps the common.

I can see them die, too, but not in my child mind. I can feel the sudden shock of the fiery death as the child inside me burrows beneath a bush, too scared to move. I can smell the scent of burned flesh, the heat of the fires.

I shut out the image. What if it was Jem'Hadar? What if it was the Earth of today they were destroying, like they did Cardassia? The child within me feels the heat and the smell and finds his legs, and just runs.

I remember the way the Jem'Hadar rammed and destroyed the Oddysey. It was hard to tell the families left on the station that fathers and mothers were gone. But there was more, a dread and awareness that the men and women of the Oddysey were only the first.

"The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not only of the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all around me. Such an extraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran weeping silently as a child might do. Once I had turned, I did not dare look back."

We did not allow ourselves to think on that desperate run from Cardassia to home-what was home. We had simply run for our lives. I do not recall any of the details of that day except a dread that it would end too soon, that we would be killed or captured before we saw home again.

I am running with him, fleeing all the fears and terrors of the sudden attack, sharing with him the dread of the future such events might portend.

Except for the reader's even, calm voice, there is not a sound.

"I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played with, that presently, when I was on the very verge of safety this mysterious death-as swift as the passage of light-would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder and strike me down."

First blood has been drawn, and we listen with absolute silence as panic takes the survivors, and in the confusion a few of them were trampled by the crowd and left behind to die. Drained and exhausted, our man collapses, remembering nothing of his flight. He staggers home, haggard and drunken with his exhaustion.

Those who did not see it find the Martians slow, and the tragedy sad but over. How could such sluggish creatures do much harm?

They say reliving a nightmare can be therapeutic. Perhaps it is true. We sit in rapt attention, listening as the words, in deep and evocative imagery, spin a vivid, bright, deadly picture of death and innocence. Deep inside, we share a kinship with those people greeting the unknown with confident curiosity, only to be captured by the frightful panic of the unknown which swept them away.

The reading done, we file out quietly, anxious to know where the monsters will go next. We know there are monsters. We have to live with them, are forced to work for them. But it is easier to be drawn into Wells' nightmare, to wonder who will survive the Martians, than to ponder our own uncertain future.

o0o

When I return from work, early for once, Ezri is sitting with Tessie curled asleep in her lap. She's carefully cuddling the little girl, absently stroking her hair. I would think it was Jadzia except for her expression, looking off to something distant and horrible.

"They tortured them first, didn't they," she says softly as I sit next to her, careful not to disturb the child. "That was the rumor, that the Breen did it."

"That's what Miles said. He should know." I hadn't told her, just that Catherine was dead. Miles had left it out as well.

"I heard they all confessed too." She is still, stroking the child, but absent-mindedly now. In her eyes is a blazing rage that scares me.

She slips out of Ezri now and then. What if she should slip into Joran? What would she do to pay them back?

"Miles said that was a rumor." I keep it at that.

"Miles needs to quit keeping secrets," she spits out. Then Tessie stirs and she has to hold her a little closer. She sighs. "Well, Odo paid them back but Catherine is still dead." Gently, she kisses the child.

People don't talk about Catherine. Nobody knows what to say. It was an accident. She probably wouldn't have been hurt enough to miss a days work if they hadn't wanted to make a point about Odo. Next time it could be anyone else, and they might make it worse, up the ante.

I keep thinking that if we'd never cured him, he wouldn't be alive to take revenge, and we wouldn't have to worry so much. Maybe Catherine and the others would still be alive. His revenge felt so good a few days ago. Now it's just an empty place where dinner should be.

Of course, if he gives up or they find him, they'll *know* and I have to make the decision I simply cannot make, not yet. Not when Ezri is holding the child of someone they murdered. Can I be responsible for the rest of these people dying?

Then the gate opens and the communications people return. They look exhausted, the only ones left that still work long days. Realand and his wife nod, and take their food. Marta won't come out unless they have gone, and even then she's very cautious.

Kira said she wasn't pregnant. At least that's one good thing. But she is still unwanted, too much a reminder of our own lives. Especially since Catherine's death, she stays by herself.

Tessie's grandmother is behind them. She gets her food, sitting next to Ezri. "How is she?" asks Elaine.

"She's fine," says Ezri, but she's still too much on edge, still lost in an angry grief.

"She misses her mother. I wish she was old enough to understand." Elaine pauses, looking at her food. "Catherine loved her so much. We lost her father just before the end. We'd actually come out here to meet him since he hadn't gotten leave."

"He was on DS9?" asks Ezri, still gloomy.

"Near enough. We had enough push to get him here for a little while. He'd never seen Tessie."

She was two, just old enough to have been born before just before the war. Even audio communications were difficult, but she might have talked to him if he'd been alive when they arrived. "Did she get to even talk to him?" I ask, noting Ezri troubled face.

"Not even that. The notification of his death met us when we arrived. Catherine tried not to cry since it scared Tessie, but couldn't really tell her why she was crying. Daddy didn't mean anything."

"I think she's looking for her mother. She kept saying 'mama' over and over." Ezri is tired, and ready to collapse. And perhaps say the wrong thing.

Elaine takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Catherine was so scared. She had a trick knee. She worried she'd fall some day, that they'd think she was being careless. She made me promise to take care of Tessie, and if anything ever happened to me make sure someone else would."

Ezri is rocking the sleeping child. Elaine gazes gently at them. Waking, Tessie yawns and smiles at her grandmother. "She should probably get to bed," says Ezri.

Elaine looks at Ezri, and then me. "I don't know what's going to happen, but if something does go wrong, if I can't raise her, would you?"

Ezri kisses the girl again. "I'd be delighted to. But your lucky. You have a pass."

Elaine looks at me, sharing a look. "Now, but they want this finished soon. I don't know how long they'll wait. I don't know if I'd be any more able to handle that kind of work than Catherine."

I understand something Ezri doesn't. Elaine and the communications team are playing a dangerous game, but very carefully. They are taking their time, dragging out the job as long as they can. When the Dominion has the com system online they can do so much more damage with the range of the new system. I almost wonder if they plan to sabotage it.

Ezri stands, offering to put Tessie to bed. Elaine nods, and she leaves. Then Elaine grows very grim. "Why didn't they just kill them? Why did they have to torture them first, force some sort of confession first? Catherine was terribly afraid of pain. I can't sleep, thinking of the way she died, what they did before they killed her."

I have no real answer. "It was a trap. Except they didn't catch him."

But she almost looks smug. "No, they didn't." I'm almost sure the com system has been sabotaged. I know why she's so worried about Tessie. I wonder if they'll torture her when the sabotage is discovered, if she'll confess on her own. It won't change the sentence. But I have a feeling she'll be proud to die.

Ezri returns, obviously tired. "She's all settled," she says, troubled but peaceful too. "Look, take care. She needs her grandmother."

"Are we going to read?" she asks the room. Most everyone is here. Dinner should come soon. She looks as if she needs a nap more than anything else.

"I'll get you up. Get some rest," I tell her. Even if she can't sleep, she needs some time alone.

"Promise?" she says, trying to smile a little.

"Come on, or do I have to carry you?"

Ezri lets me guide her, and I watch as she half-collapses. Before I go, she says quietly, "I knew about Worf to, and couldn't stop him either."

Outside, Elaine is gone, but people are already waiting for the reading. With everyone so tired, we keep them short. We'll wait a little while, but Ezri will wake up for it. Even Elaine will come back into public view.

It's their disaster, their war. We have tripods chasing us down. But the heat ray and the smoke are all too plausible. Still, for a time we get to retreat into someone else's nightmare, hoping it will not in the end be ours as well.

o0o

In a few hours we will get breakfast, but right now I can't sleep. My stomach is grumbling too much. It's been over two weeks since the bomb and our rations are still only half of what we got before. At least Odo hasn't tried anything else. Ezri and the others are hostages to our good cooperation. But all of us in all the groups are hostages to Odo and his revenge.

To distract myself, I dwell on the book. I debate with the author on the proper fate of the invaders. Should they be killed, punishment for their massacre in Woking, or allowed to live? How do we know that they would see the Deputation for what it was? Could they have assumed the good men with their good intentions were intending to kill the Martians? Would we do the same with our version of the heat ray if we were in their place, especially now that all our illusions have been shattered.

I try to remember the wait, the simulations that proved we didn't have a chance, the stunning death of the Maquis, the questions. . . always more questions. It was almost a relief to have the war start.

I can see the first glimpse of the tripod along the road, the first proof that the Martians were not the weak, clumsy things they were said to be. And I hide with the man as it passes, astonished at the Thing, horrified and fascinated at the same time.

I stand with him, watching the fire that had been Surrey, holding onto memories as it inexorably moves toward his own home on Maybury hill. The smoke stings my nose, and the shadows of its approaching doom dance on the ceiling.

I keep thinking of Cardassia, reduced to a rotting pile of refuse. I keep seeing the fires of Surrey as a portend of the same.

I am one with the man and the soldier as they make their way towards London, warning of the death approaching the people. But London is yet untouched, and it's a Sunday afternoon in the park.

How many times had Sisko said Starfleet would be sending a few ships, what they could spare. I'd been their prisoner. I knew what they were. Nobody wanted to listen to me either.

There were more cylinders arriving, more death. On the outskirts of London, the suburban villas were lined with men and guns. I was born in London. For the others this was just a story. For me, it is too real. But I am with them, those men lined up in the bushes, trying to hold off the cylinders with rifles, trying to save home.

Too restless to sleep, I take out the book, searching for a passage we'd read several days before. I'd borrowed it from Miles, and he gave it to me silently, knowing where I was from. London was full of haggard refuges, and the army was setting up in the streets. The smoke of distant battle filled the air, and the residents of London were being swept up in the fear.

There is the dispatch from the army. "The Martians are able to discharge enormous clouds of a black and poisonous vapor by means of rockets. They have smothered our batteries, destroyed Richmond, Kingston, and Wimbleton, and are advancing slowly towards London, destroying everything on the way. It is impossible to stop them. There is no safety from the Black Smoke but in instant flight."

The population of London, en masse, run northward however they may do it. In their panic they push through neighbors and friends, driving the unlucky or slow out of the way, all desperate to escape the Martians and their black, suffocating smoke.

When the Jem'Hadar come, will there be a place to hide? Surrey is perhaps 20 miles from London. The Dominion destroyed more than that with one flash on Cardassia. Or would they prefer the personal touch of individual murder done by swarms of Jem'Hadar? From what we heard before we ran in panic ourselves, most of the Cardassians died that way.

I read up to the part we've finished, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes. The refugees reach the trains and cram them full, the rest still running on foot. Hunger begins to tease at them. The night is cold and there is nowhere to sleep. And the fear of the Martians keeps driving them to run until there is nowhere else to go.

We ran to the closest version of home we knew, and they took it away. These locked cages cannot be home. But we are not on Cardassia, and we are not dead. We are the lucky ones, the one's who made it to the trains, who were not running hungry and cold along the road. I put the book down, lost somewhere between its world and my own.

I'm careful not to waken Ezri, but then she is too tired to wake unless I touch her wrong. They are finished with the remodeling, and all they do is load ships now. But it's very tiring with our present diet. We still do our readings, but before dinner. After dinner everyone goes to sleep.

If you can sleep. When the Federation loses, when it's not Martians but Jem'Hadar, will they bring the same oblivion as the heat ray and the smoke? Will our families be the charred or suffocated corpses left behind?

I'm not getting enough to eat. My half-empty stomach keeps me awake. But so does the future, and the fear we will know the world the Martians are making.

Sometimes I wonder if we should have just let Odo die. It wouldn't have changed the end of the war. But we might have more to eat.

Funny how going to bed hungry every night can change one's perspective.

Our masters aren't pushing us like they were. I don't see that many injuries, though the ones inflicted by the Jem'Hadar are never sent to me. But a lot more people are getting sick. I don't know why I get them, since there isn't a lot I can do to help. I can't raise rations back to what they were and that is what is needed.

Odo's playing this game with them, and we are the game pieces. Things, just like we are to the ones he's fighting. I think about that every morning while I carefully scrape my plate for the last traces of my mush. We saved him because he was different, because a wrong had been done to him. Is this how we are paid back?

If Sloan was here, would he be laughing at us? Would he say it was payback for what Miles and I did to him? I was going to torture him if that was what it took. I didn't regret his death, though I hadn't planned on his suicide. I would have willingly taken a life to save one.

When we tied down Sloan and forced our way into his mind, he was nothing more than something to use. Just like we are to them.

Maybe that is what keeps me awake. Maybe that is why I dread the moment they tell me to cure them so much.

I planned to say no. Just refuse. I hate them for what they've done to us, for the ruin of our lives and futures and memories. But now I realize it isn't so simple. It's probably simple to Odo, hiding in a shadow somewhere. He is focused on Kira. We are just things in the way.

When they order me to save their gods, I'll be Odo. I can't refuse, can't tell them no. If I do they won't hurt *me*, but make me watch as the rations go to nothing, as they tear away our families and send them away.

I can't cure them. But I can't refuse either. What ... what do I do? Either way I betray my own people.

I keep dreaming about the explosion that I just barely escaped in the last battle. Except in my dreams I die with the wounded. If I was dead, they couldn't make me cure them. If we'd left Odo to die, he couldn't make us pawns in his game.

Sometimes there are worse things than dying.

I remember the classes I took on ethics. It sounded so simple then. We are doctors, we said. We do not harm. We would not use the healing arts to destroy.

But then, I hadn't had the woman who has grown to be a part of me flinch when I try to hold her. I hadn't watched when she and the others are forced to go each day, even if they're sick. I hadn't worried that she'd come back even more hurt or afraid. Or maybe not come back at all.

Ethics is simple when it's only in a book.

She's stirring, crying in her sleep. I try to hold her and she whimpers. Ethics is simple when you don't want to kill them.

Ethics is easy when all you really want is to get revenge. The only complication is how to do that without the cost being so high.

Maybe that's what's keeping me awake. Maybe I'll be able to sleep then, when I figure out how to do that.

o0o

I usually get back later than the rest, though seldom very late anymore since they have other doctors. But most of the others have already returned. During the day, I am isolated from them by a silence neither side is willing to break. I speak to my patients as little as necessary and they only ask the required questions. I never look at them and they avoid me. I never know if the news will be bad when I get home, or if it has been what passes as a normal day in this new version of Terok Nor.

But since the bombing, there are more and more stories of deaths and injuries that get hauled away to die in holding cells. It helps during the day, knowing that I'm able to keep a few out of the deadly places. But coming back each night, passing through the gate, I look around with apprehension. Life is growing steadily harder. The Breen are gone, but the Jem'Hadar more than make up for it.

They still have the prods, but like to use their fists better. Or the butts of their rifles. I don't get to treat the victims. Either they get up and out of the way or get shot.

Now they have plenty of us to replace the ones they shoot. The new holds below are full of them. Need an engineer? They can find a new one. Need a doctor? I wonder. Maybe I should make trouble. They'll probably kill me if what I'm beginning to suspect is true and they don't know. Then, when they find out, it will be too late. Nobody can cure them.

It would be particularly good if Weyoun had ordered my execution. Then the Founder would have him to blame. His guilt would be a good legacy. But they wouldn't need Ezri as a hostage anymore. Would she already be gone by then, or waiting locked below in the dark?

She actually let me hold her last night. She was even my Ezri, with that little shrug of hers. She was scared, knowing I wouldn't hurt her but unable to stop the fear. After a time of gentle cuddles, she finally relaxed in my arms. We both slept well for once. If only today doesn't just make things worse again.

But it's obvious that something is wrong as soon as I walk inside, too many people just sitting, everyone too silent. I get my food first, the cart still there, as has become habit and locate Ezri. She's sitting next to Scalman with a small knot of friends nearby, all silent. He's holding his children, but Tina isn't there, and there are tears running down his cheeks.

Ezri is sitting close, talking quietly to him. For the first time since we were locked up, she's acting like a counselor.

But Tina should be back. She is always back by now. I take a deep breath and look at Kira, standing nearby.

"What . . . " I say, not sure how to ask.

"Tina slipped and had a crate fall on her. The Jem'Hadar shot her." Kira is watching from a little distance away. I start moving nearer and she stops me. "Leave them be. Ezri was a good friend of hers. Let them say good bye."

I realize that while I *know* these people, I don't know them all that well. I don't spend the day with them under the Jem'Hadar's constant watch. I sit with Miles at night. I'm insulated from the life they've been forced into.

Kira and I sit. "Was it really an accident?" I ask.

"The crate? Sure, she slipped on a wet floor. I don't know if you'd have been able to do anything anyway. Of course, I wasn't there when it happened. They'll be more times like this," she says, almost nonchalant about it.

How bad had things been on Cardassia? Or was she remembering when the Cardassians had been the guards?

The little knot around Scalman moves back and I can see how he's sitting slumped forward, still in shock. Little Nicki, still too young to understand, keeps calling for his Mama. Trisha, near Molly's age, is crying.

Scalman stands, the crowd breaking up, and Ezri stays with them. She picks up Nicki and carries him into the family quarters after his father and sister.

Miles comes up behind me. "It was just a matter of time," he mumbles, looking towards Keiko.

Kira agrees. "They're getting careless now. You're close to done and can be replaced. And there's plenty of bodies to choose from."

"That bad?" I ask, feeling left out of the grapevine.

Miles speaks very quietly. "Some of the groups are just labor. They didn't worry too much about families. They're getting in a lot of prisoners who go through below. They get put on ships and sent out of here. Not Cardassia, but somewhere. Maybe through the wormhole. Just hope we hold on to this place as long as we can."

Kira is watching a small confrontation in the corner. Marta has tried to make her way back to her floor, but several men have cornered her.

I can hear the voices, the sort of suggestions they are making. Kira appears undecided about weather to intervene. But Jackson steps forward, pulling them away.

His voice is loud, hurting. "Get away from her. I don't care what she did. You want this to be your memorial to Tina?"

Marta skidders away, hurrying back to safety. The others wander off, mumbling to themselves. I can't take my eyes of Jackson. I remember when Tina took the blanket from his hands, wrapped it around him and kept him going in the last cell. He must be devastated. He must be thinking of his family, of Cheryl.

Kira and Miles have gone, and I wait for Ezri. She emerges from the room looking a little dazed. There is blood on her clothes. She finds me and takes my hand, leading us back to our quarters.

Only then does she speak, with anger and more of the deep seeded hatred that grows daily. "She didn't die from the crate. Or maybe she did, but she had time to get out of the way. She slipped on the wet floor, was almost up when they jerked the line and she fell, then the crate fell on her. They deliberately murdered her." She takes a deep breath, looking at me, not seeing me. "She always did the work like we were told. But she liked to glare at them. Maybe she didn't see that they noticed."

Then she collapses on our bed, just staring. "Could I have done anything?" I ask, almost hoping that there was nothing.

Her voice is flat, without any expression. I wish it was dark, so I don't have to see the dull look that fills her eyes. I remember when they sparkled. "They kicked the crate off her, and she had blood everywhere. I think her ribs were crushed. Then the head guard just walked up and shot her in the head. At least it was over quick. I helped move her out of the way."

"Nothing, then . . . " I mumble, the death still not real.

Ezri looks down at her clothes, and the blood. "I guess I have to put up with this," she says, resigned.

We haven't had showers the last two weeks, and they didn't give us the clean clothes we were promised either.

Not really surprising.

I need to get away. Maybe Ezri could use a little time by herself. "I'm going to see how things are going," I tell her, but she doesn't notice.

Miles is sitting by himself in an empty room. I sit next to him uninvited. Most of the rest have gone home. "Ezri told me what happened, what really happened."

He stares at the water in front of him, taking a sip. "Keiko didn't see it, but she saw the body." He gets quiet. "I'll never walk back here without worrying again," he adds. "Even with Catherine, it was different. They were setting a trap. This wasn't that, just everyday stuff."

He goes back to staring. I don't look at his eyes, don't want to see what's inside. He has children. How will Scalman explain to a three year old that mommy is dead, that mommy was murdered? How will he keep them from growing up with rage inside? I am just profoundly grateful that I have no children, that I won't have to explain that mommy is gone.

Miles finishes his water. "I guess we won't read tonight. It's probably too late anyway." He stores the cup in the holder next to the barrel. "I'd like to be with my family right now," he says, lost in some deep place.

I'm not ready to sleep. Ezri didn't even see me go. She'll probably ignore me for hours. Alone in the room, I take in the silence.

The changelings are dying. Sooner or later, the trap will work and they'll catch Odo, discover his secret. Then they'll come for me.

I want them to die. But what of the Jem'Hadar? I've been so lost in my own dilemma I've missed the obvious danger, one 31 didn't plan on. We were supposed to win the war, and be far away when the Founders died. When they pass, what do the Jem'Hadar do? They are already acting like vicious animals. Will any of us survive if they go on a rampage?

But then, is this any better? Right now, the pall of mourning in the air, I'm not so sure anymore.

Tomorrow, in a few hours, it all repeats over again like it does every other morning and I realize I no longer know if its worth it.

o0o

Scalman went with the work crew today. He couldn't concentrate on his Ops duties. It's been three days and he hasn't said a word to anyone. The children hold onto him all the time. Even the boy knows what happened to mommy now.

Ezri has hardly said a word. She spends a lot of time with Scalman and his children, rocking little Nicky to sleep for his nap. Yesterday the three of them were all sleeping together in our bed.

She used to watch them for Tina. They're used to her. Maybe they help each other.

I keep busy. I shut out everything but my job. I delivered a baby today. That was the hardest thing, welcoming a new life to this hell. The various injuries are becoming so commonplace that I hardly notice them. I don't look at faces anymore. It's too hard to pretend that way.

The Jem'Hadar take me back. We eat our brief meal. We've moved readings back to after meals again. We are nearly done with War of the Worlds.

Earth belongs to the Martians now, their black smoke destroying what the heat ray has spared, poisoning the land it touches, the red weed everywhere. Those that survive search desperately for food among the devastation. Our man, telling his story, has found an abandoned house with a comfortable bed to sleep in this day.

Keiko is reading. Her calm, expressive voice reminds us of better days, of the school she taught when our children had an education.

"Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing of the curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate of my wife."

Men reach out for their families, and some hold their wives very close, as if that might keep them safe.

"And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a prostrate body, I face the problem of the Martians and the fate of my wife. For the former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred things, and so, unhappy, I could for the latter. And suddenly that night became terrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. I found myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly and painlessly struck her being."

Keiko stops. Scalman has moved forward, his children still clutching at his hands. He had stayed away from readings since his wife's death. He sits, pulling the children near, and nods to resume the story.

Nervously, she continues. It is a long chapter. We always finish the chapter. In this space, with our books, we make our own rules, and that is one of them.

Our man meets an artillery man and is taken in by the vision of a secret resistance, saving the little of humanity that is left. But the artillery man is only a dreamer. They party while the world dies a little more. He cannot make the dream a reality, and our man leaves, needing to know what has become of the world he lost. He determines he will go next to London.

I push away the image of a dead London. I hold Ezri tight, fearful she will be the next that doesn't return. I have lost so much. I can't lose anymore.

The Martians suck the living fluids from the humans they catch, a terrible death. Our masters tear apart parents from children and deport them to convict gangs where death can be a greater gift than life.

If I don't cure their gods, they will send Ezri there. I don't want to let go, to hold her forever so she might be safe.

Quietly, we disappear into our little rooms to attempt to sleep.

Ezri is exhausted and falls asleep immediately. I am emotionally spent and fall into a heavy sleep as well. Then the bell rings, and we come out for breakfast.

But Scalman doesn't. Neither do his children. Miles goes to check, and I fumble with my pass, hating its touch.

"Julian, come here," he says, motioning for me to follow.

Inside, I see the bed with the three of them entwined together. None of them are moving. I check. None of them have a pulse. The bodies are cold and stiff. He and the children are dead.

It was drugs or poison. I wonder where he found it.

Miles brings me a quick breakfast, and I eat it as I wait outside their quarters, allowing Miles to tell the rest. He waits until after breakfast is done, though it is eaten in a curious silence. The guards have the bodies carried out before G1 goes to work.

Miles is waiting by me when they are gone. "He thanked me," says Miles, quietly. "I asked him to wait six months. It hasn't been that long."

"He had that. He probably wouldn't have without you." I don't know what else to say.

"Trishi was one of Molly's best friends. After I explained about Catherine and then Tina, why her friends couldn't play . . . How do I explain this?"

I remember Jeffrey, that first night after we were sent here, how little like a child he was. He's never changed, never come out of his nightmare. Nobody even knows what it is. For a time, our children have been spared. How long will that last? How many will end up like him in the end?

"You probably won't have to," I say, watching as the others line up to go, each saying some sort of good bye, just in case. I already said mine to Ezri. She was too stunned by the suicide to say anything and there wasn't time to dawdle.

The children sit near Cindy, talking quietly. Miles watches, picking out Molly and her brother from the others. "Maybe she can do a better job. I don't know what to say."

He's called to go and I wander closer, hoping to hear a little. One of the little girls is telling a story about Nicki, how she liked this song. Some of them are crying.

The guard calls for me and I shut everything but medicine out for the day.

When I return, Ezri is sitting by herself. She has my bowl already, Tessie sitting nearby playing, her grandmother not yet back. "Murderer," she says.

"Something happen?" I ask cautiously.

"No, him," she says. "Michael, their father."

She's talking about Scalman. The children were only three and six. I suppose he didn't ask them if they wanted to die too.

"He couldn't cope," I say, not trying to disagree.

"He was a coward. Her grandmother is still here," she says, looking at Tessie. "She didn't give up. Not only a coward but a murdered, child killer." She pats the little girl who is showing her a toy. "I would have taken them and he knew it. But he had to execute them, just like the guards. If he wanted to be a coward, just *die*, then let him. But he didn't own them. He's no better than the guard that killed his wife."

I can't think of anything to say. Six months ago this was our home. Now we're just part of the machinery, and I wonder how long it will be before we can't feel anything at all.

End, Part 1, Chapter 6 of Surrender


	7. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 7

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this chapter:

The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells

The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, by John Le Carre'

Chapter 7

Two days ago, rations abruptly went back to what they'd been. Nobody explained. It just *was*. We were half-sick trying to eat it all the first day, and still feel so full after a meal.

It's nice to look forward to being full.

They must have caught Odo. It's the only believable reason we're being fed full rations again, and even Ezri has noticed how hard it is for me to sleep. Only the rhythmic waves of the sea and the bird song of the forest lull me under.

Each morning I have expected them to take me away and make their demands. A few others understand. Miles has kept a watch for special guards passing by while I eat. Kira keeps looking at me, in support or pity I don't know.

Ezri knows too, but won't put it into words. She knows the price if I refuse as well. She's been quiet the last few days, tired and worn as well as the toll from nearly a month of meager rations is starting to show.

Each day when I return I listen, hoping to catch the mood of the room, and grateful that I spent the day treating their damaged goods, knowing that I am on borrowed time.

But for the others things are getting a little better. The work isn't as hard as it was and nobody pushes them all that much. With more food it might even be easy.

Miles and his crew are substantially done. He's almost back to his old job, fixing that which breaks, which even now is a constant stream of work. If he's lucky they'll need him and the others for a long time.

The only ones who always get back late are the communications team, Realand and his wife and Elaine Silman. Ezri takes care of Tessie, and occasionally they get back so late she ends up staying the night in our quarters. Ezri is falling in love with the child, even without Jadzia's help.

Dinner has come and gone tonight, everyone but them back to eat it. But we were forbidden to keep any bowls for them. They are out of luck.

Realand struts in first, just before the reading. The two women, less sure of themselves, follow him without looking at anyone. They all sit down expecting dinner.

They're looking around, trying not to be obvious. Jackson is sitting with his wife, nearby, waiting for the reading. He looks over at them. "The cart left a while ago. Sorry."

Realand stares at Carl, annoyed. Neither of them like each other and neither bothers to pretend they do. "And I hope you didn't *forget* to save something behind for us," he snipes.

Carl glares back. "Maybe I did."

Realand is furtively looking around, hungry and tired and seeing no dinner. He's starting to worry. "I don't see anything. Quit the games. It's been a long day." He isn't so strident now, just hungry.

"No games. They wouldn't let us. From now on, at least for you, if you aren't done, you miss dinner." Carl is just repeating what the guards had told us, but he's enjoying it too.

"I see," says Realand, trying to hide his disappointment and failing miserably at it. The women just stand, backing off disappointed but without bothering to argue with Carl.

Carl has been very busy today. He got back just in time. A power relay failed and he'd been working on fixing it all day. He's tired and dirty and has had enough of Realand's general attitude that we are pushovers.

He blocks Realand from getting to his quarters. Nobody bothers to stop him. It's free entertainment and nobody particularly likes Realand anyway.

"If you worked a little more you'd be home in time for dinner," says Carl calmly.

Realand fumes. He and his team have been carrying on a deliberate delaying action, stalling as long as they can, taking twice as long as the least trained lieutenant would have been allowed by Sisko before. I watch him as he stares at Carl, arrogance creeping into his look. I wonder if he knows just how dangerous a game they are playing, if its really worth the risk that they will find someone locked in the dark below more than willing to do it quickly. Only his expert knowledge of the system has kept him from ending up there.

As for the women, I think he bullies them into going along. At least his wife. Elaine Silman had a daughter murdered by them. She has every reason to cooperate. I suspect she has her own agenda.

Realand sticks his face directly into Carl's. "You mean scurry about like little rats like you do."

Carl does not get angry. He's too afraid of anger. He's too worried his son will explode some day to tempt fate. He's the opposite of Realand. They gave him the power relay because he works fast and accurate.

"I take care of my family." Marta is nowhere in sight, but Carl glances back where she's hiding. "I don't let my wife get sick and beat up my daughter."

Realand takes a swing and Carl dodges it. "I have no daughter," spits out the older man, now livid.

People stand back, since he's got his hand in a fist. Carl doesn't move. "You don't deserve one either."

Realand has his arm raised ready to deliver the punch. Carl lets him, but moves out of the way. Cassie Realand has moved forward trying to stop the fight and the punch lands on her cheek. It's a hard punch and she falls.

Realand stands there looking at his fist. Jackson helps his wife off the floor. "Please, we'll go now," she pleads to Carl.

She's feeling her cheek gingerly, and Carl tows her over to me. "Any bleeding?" he asks.

She puts up with my examination. Her husband glares at Carl, but doesn't interfere. "No, she's all right. But it's going to be sore."

She disappears into their quarters. Carl strolls up to Realand, still glaring. "Isn't it more fun to hit her in front of everyone?" he asks.

He lets Realand go. He stomps off toward their quarters, barely under control. Miles stops him before he gets too far. "She better not have any more bruises tomorrow," he warns. Realand shoves Miles out of the way and goes inside.

The floor show over, Realand and his attitude properly humbled, we get ready to read. Elaine has been standing back, just watching. She comes over to Ezri and I shaking her head. "We got a special warning today." She points her finger at her temple, her hand imitating a rifle. I involuntarily shiver. "We were warned to hurry up next time or it might go off." She stares straight ahead, avoiding our eyes, hiding something. "Kevin's a little shaken, though he wouldn't admit it."

Ezri nods. "Miles means it about the bruises."

"He'll quit. He's just waiting to get inside where nobody can see how scared he is." She smiles, a sad one. "Is she in your quarters?"

"I put her to bed an hour ago, after dinner," says Ezri.

"Well, leave her there. I might as well hear the book." She sighs, her face softening for a time. "She looks so like Catherine did then."

But the anger never leaves, the coldness that has filled her voice when she speaks of her daughter since her death. Ezri watches as she finds a place to sit near the back.

I wonder when Tessie will become a part of our family, if her grandmother's plan will backfire or succeed, and only wish she could hide it a little better.

Miles takes his place to read. "Last day for the Martians," he says. He reads, "Chapter 8, Dead London."

I keep wishing the Artilleryman had not been such a dreamer. If only his dream had mattered more, if the tunnel had become a reality. It was such a wonderful dream for a world left in ruin to build anew. But now, the dreamer lost in his dream, our man has gone to seek the fate of the world.

London is a city of the dead. "Here I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and upon dead bodies. I saw altogether about a dozen in the length of the Fulham Road. They have been dead many days, so that I hurried quickly past them. The black powder quickly covered them over, and softened their outlines. One or two had been disturbed by dogs." They are so clean here, I think. The dead are taken and gone. Scalman and family are ghosts now, their rooms empty and deserted, left to them for now.

But there are places it is almost as if everyone had simply gone. "Where there was no black power, it was curious like a Sunday in the City, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the blinds drawn, the desertion, and the stillness. In some places plunderers had been at work, but rarely at other than the provision and wine shops." Food and wine, to fill the stomach and fool the mind, were what mattered for the survivors. We have no wine. Perhaps for some it would be easier if we did.

He continues into London, astonished by the stillness. "But it was not the stillness of death-it was the stillness of suspense, of expectation. At any time the destruction that had already singed the north-western borders of the metropolis, and had annihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these smoking ruins. It was a city condemned and derelict . . ."

He goes further into London, finding the more he walks the cleaner the area. In the heart of the city is neither black powder and nor death, just more emptiness. And a curious noise, a mournful distant wailing. Drawn towards it, the wailing takes possession of him.

"It was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone in the city of the dead? Why was I alone when all London was lying in state, and in its black shroud? I felt intolerably lonely. My mind ran on old friends that I had forgotten for years. I thought of the poisons in the chemists' shops, of the liquors the wine merchants stored; I recalled the two sodden creatures of despair, who so far as I knew, shared the city with myself . . . ."

I think of that vial, still hidden and undisturbed, and Ezri's anger at Scalman. It was an option, once considered. Now, would I dare to take it? Would I be demeaning myself to being them should I take Ezri with me? I sit in this room alone, waiting for the day they come and change everything. Even Ezri cannot understand, or will not. All I need do is refuse and this will be as much a place of the dead as our man's London.

He drags himself onwards, finding the collapsed hood of a Martian machine in the street, screaming out its mournful cry. But he is drawn onward, as night falls and the illusion of life falls away and London becomes truly a place of the dead.

"London about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows in the white houses were like the eye socket of skulls. About me I found a thousand noiseless enemies moving. Terror seized me, a horror of my temerity. In front of me the road became pitchy black as though it was tarred and I saw a contorted shape lying across the pathway." His courage fails and he runs through the night, down streets, past places he'd run a lifetime before. As the dawn overtook his panic, and resolve overtook him, to die, to end all of the pain, as the remains of a third Martian comes into view.

"And I would save myself even the trouble of killing myself. I marched on recklessly towards this Titan, and then, as I drew nearer and the light grew, I saw that a multitude of black birds was circling and clustering around the hood. At that my heart gave a bound, and I began running along the road."

All around is the red weed, this being the Martians main camp. Miles voice fades away, and I am wading through the river, the weed reaching above my head. My rifle is in my hand, the Martian hood resting near, and I crawl up the bank concealed in the red living cover, coming closer and closer, waiting until there is hardly any distance, pointing it directly at the resting hood, firing . . .

The fire explodes around me. A rain of amber goo falls about, covering the red weed, drying to a dark grey residue which covers everything. But the fire fades. I stand looking at the grey ash, now mounds of it all around. I am alone now, the naked bones of those who had lived here the only sign that it had ever been more than a place of the dead. I am free, the ash blowing in a gentle breeze, but so alone. The bodies are strewn about as if tossed like toys. The wind begins to howl. The ash chokes me and I cannot breath. But what does it matter? What is life if nothing is left, all the living taken as a cost?

Ezri is tapping me on the shoulder. "Julian, you awake?"

I shake my head, and the dust, the weed, the wrenching pain of my choking disappears and I am back here, locked in a cage. But Miles is reading, his voice slow and careful, the way he must have learned to read when he read stories to Molly.

"The torment was over. Even that day the healing would begin. To survivors of the people scattered over the country-leaderless, lawless, foodless, like sheep without a shepherd-the thousand who had fled by sea would return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and stronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour across the vacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the hand of the destroyers was stayed."

And life poured back into London, to everywhere. I look around this room, to these tired, desperate people, and wonder how many dream of that day, but only as a dream. Even for Well's Earth, the dead do not rise, the friends gone and maimed inside forever by the brutality visited upon them are not resurrected, and the reminder of the time, and its terror will live forever even past the last moment of their lives.

o0o

Everybody is back early today, even Realand and his crew. They were not nearly as arrogant, Realand saying not a word, but his chief interest was dinner.

But dinner isn't here yet. The cart hasn't found its way to us, though our stomachs are ready and have been for a while.

The grumbling is getting on everyone's nerves, and somebody stands. "We could read early. We'll break when they show up with the food."

It is agreed. Brenda is next and reads with gusto tonight. Her moods are very obvious when she reads. Sometimes she is like today, as if everything was bright and wonderful. Other times she is hardly audible and her voice drags.

The new book is a spy novel, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, drawn from the harsh, unforgiving world of real spies. As she reads the beginning, I keep thinking about Garak for it is about the world in which he lived. Even the disgrace that befalls Lemas as he loses all his agents to an East German spy master reminds me of my friend. I never discovered what had so turned Tain against his son that Garak was forced into exile. For a long time I wondered if Garak's expulsion was merely an illusion to allow Garak to stay behind.

But then Tain died, and I was sitting across from he and Garak in Barracks 6, and I knew his secret. There was no subterfuge in Tain's cruel dying words to his son. It echoed my own father's disappointment much too closely.

I'm hungry, half-listening to the book as I follow Lemas' decline, wondering what would have become of me should Sloan have succeeded in trapping me in that world as well. But I will never know. Both of them are dead. This book is as close as I will ever come to knowing their world.

The empty room remains unused. Nobody will go near it. I remember Garak's comment that Tain would miss his funeral. We don't get them either. Maybe their ghosts are still there, waiting.

We will let them alone.

But tonight, dinner still missing and the reading in a break, the gate opens and four people are shoved inside. They look lost and disoriented. The head guard gruffly addresses us. "For the empty room," he says before he marches off.

They stand there looking befuddled, staring at us as we look them over. I don't envy them. The two children are perhaps ten or eleven. They won't have to stay behind when their parents are sent out for work.

The man finally looks around him. Kira is the closest to him. He looks at her, asks, "Could you tell us where we are?"

"Deep Space 9," she says. Everyone is watching them.

"It was a long trip," says the daughter, her expression very grim, her eyes stunned.

"Have you eaten?" asks one of our women. "The cart is due."

Finally, the gate creaks open and the cart is pushed through. I watch as the new people follow it into our section, unable to stop staring at the food. We make room for them near the middle where everybody can hear should they have something to say.

We still get news. But it's often rumors based on what someone saw or overheard just in bits and pieces. We're all anxious to discover what they know. It has to be real.

But there is something we have to do first. Realand looks at Miles, waiting.

Miles steps forward, a small, sharp piece of metal in his hand. "We have to see some blood," he says.

Hesitantly, though without fuss, they submit to a blood screening and pass.

The mood shifts towards curiosity rather than suspicion.

But all they know is the food. We thought we were hungry, but they cannot see anything else but dinner. We let them eat, concentrating on our own dinners, wondering how bad things had been that they appear to see this as luxury. We leave them in peace. The man casts a hopeful look at the cart but we don't get seconds. He follows it as it rolls out the door.

Keiko moves closer and introduces herself. The wife looks a little uncertain, but she gives their names. "I'm Catherine, and this is my husband Daniel and our children Bayla and Willy."

I glance at Elaine, stiffening at the name. She stares straight at her hand, clutching something tight.

No last names. They have been moved around a bit, I guess. We've heard that people get used to keeping it simple after a while. We know we can not ask where they are from. But the room grows very quiet and we are all on edge, needing to know something first hand and real as much as the unnamed narrator wandering in dead London.

Daniel picks up on the mood, looking up, speaking softly. "We are civilians. We lived on Deneba before they ripped it apart."

His voice is soft, haunted by memories. But his news is stunning. Denaba was inside the Federations most heavily protected core. We knew the Klingons were on the verge of being forced into a surrender. We didn't know how bad off the Federation was. Or maybe we didn't want to.

I remember that Kira insisted we couldn't give up. How do you not give up when your side is so near defeat? How do you keep hoping when you know there will never be a liberation?

Perhaps her grandparents could have told us. But she grew up long after it was done. She never knew what had been lost.

The children pick up the families empty bowls, returning them back to the cart. Bayla scrapes all the traces of mush from the bowls before she drops them in the bin.

They look around, nervous. "What's it like here?" asks Catherine.

"We work for them," says someone behind me, without expression.

The new family nods, unperturbed or surprised. Daniel, still uneasy, adds, "I don't know if you've heard much of what's happened. We don't know a lot but if we can help ... "

The questions begin, piling on one another too quickly and muddled for any of them to be answered.

Kira stands, signaling silence. "One at a time."

It's hard to restrain ourselves, but we try. We ask about everything.

"Have you seen any Breen?"

"No, only Jem'Hadar."

"Have you heard about the Klingons?"

"Just rumors, but they were almost completely overrun."

"What were they doing with captured territory?"

"We were trying to evacuate, but got caught before the battle was over. We don't know. But I worry about our friends, the ones that stayed."

We ask about Earth and the Federation and Catherine starts to cry. Daniel looks very grim. "We were trying to evacuate to there when they got us," he says, as if it was hard to say the words. "But I wondered why. Even without the Breen, they can pound us until all we have left is ruins. Maybe," he pauses, "maybe we were hoping the Federation wouldn't let it go that far." He looks around the room. "Though if they haven't surrendered yet, it's probably too late."

So we know.

I think of the people in Surrey, running towards the illusion of safety that was London.

Anxious to change the subject, one of the women says, "We have readings. We just started the new book. I guess you could catch up."

Daniel is still staring at the cage. "I haven't seen a book in a long time," he says.

Silence fills the room.

People are hoping they'll be a surrender. Somehow, I doubt it will make much of a difference in the end. With a surrender, more will be alive to live like this. Perhaps they should be glad the Federation is still fighting, that the Dominion will hold fewer of us as slaves and those that survive might matter a little bit more.

Miles breaks the spell when he hesitantly offers to show them to their quarters before we read. They don't ask how the rooms got emptied. We don't mention it. They will know why soon enough, even if the ghosts have gone. But somehow I doubt it will matter too much.

They go to their quarters, awed by the grimy little rooms when they emerge. Hesitantly they sit close to one another, nervous among strangers.

"You can borrow the book to catch up," Miles tells them. "Generally, we trade off reading and we always finish the chapter."

They nod, moving close, almost as if in a unit. But I watch them as they fall under the spell of the words. Lemas is allowed a last decline before his secret draws him into a hidden life and makes sure, however it works, that nothing would ever be the same for him again.

The chapter ends, and we retire to our beds. Daniel and family can hardly wait, even with the words dancing in their heads.

We already know that nothing, no matter what, will ever be the same for us either.

o0o

Often of late, I'm the first to be taken to my work. But today everyone else but the now very pregnant Cindy and her charges are gone. I wait by the gate, growing very nervous. The First and two other guards arrive and I'm ordered to go with them.

This will not be a normal day. I am almost grateful it has finally come.

We pass through the Promenade, but now the shops are gone. They have used the space for other things, storage bays, offices and the like. Quark's is a warehouse.

I wonder if Quark is still alive. I force myself not to think of it.

We pass Ops, and enter the old wardroom. I expect Weyoun. But instead there is a changeling. It isn't Odo, or the female. This one wears the same sort of half-formed face as the others, but I have never seen it.

The moment of truth has come. I only wish I knew what to do.

He stands. I can see he is sick, but much less so than the female. "Human," I'm addressed. "You will cure us of the disease as you have cured Odo."

I don't know if I should speak. The Jem'Hadar are standing ready to shoot if I appear to threaten anyone. Or, perhaps, that would be better. "I have no records to work with," I say, hoping they like my tone of voice.

There is a padd on the table in front of me. "Pick it up," orders one of the Jem'Hadar. I retrieve it very cautiously. I see a fragment of a file, and can tell it was one of those with personal notes I'd taken. So much for that excuse.

The Martians died too late, but there was a second chance for the survivors. If I do this will I deny us that chance?

"This was recovered from the computer system left on this station. It was from that which we learned your identity. You will cooperate or your friends and family will be destroyed."

They aren't bothering with subtlety. Destroyed. At least it would be fast. I have no answer for him. But then I have an idea. "This partial document was my original formula. I did quite a bit of experimentation before I found a successful cure. I will have to work on it."

He looks at me, or more towards me as he wouldn't deign to look at a solid prisoner. "You claim you do not remember."

I can't read him. I hope he believes me. "Not precisely. I discovered I would have to adjust it to each individual." I try to think of how Sloan would say it. He would know how to lie to them. I try to be like Sloan for a while.

"Remember your friends, then. You will be taken to a lab where you will work each day until you have rediscovered the cure."

And what then, I wonder? Do they dispose of me? Do they send me back to keeping the other slaves in one piece?

I keep my head down, don't look at him. I don't want my revulsion to show. He is pealing here and there. I wonder what happened to the female who had been here before.

The Jem'Hadar First motions for me to leave. I step ahead of them carefully, not looking back. But there is something nagging me about the file. I'd only glanced at it, and yet I don't remember parts of it. I keep my face blank while I'm brought to a door.

I enter the room alone. The guards follow, checking out the room, but leave immediately. I shudder when I see where I am. Months earlier, I guess months, this place had been full of wounded before the Jem'Hadar had murdered them.

I stand for a moment, remembering. How can I cooperate with murderers? If I don't, will I be no better than them?

At least they'd changed things, moved most of the medical section to a corner and made it a big lab. I have the best of Federation technology at my call, as well as other things. There is a small alcove apparently set up for cloning. I sit down on a comfortable chair, savoring its softness, and study the padd.

I consider the bits of formula. I know the correct one without the padd. But this bears no resemblance to Odo's cure. Some of it is right, the personal notes I'd taken, but none of the parts of formula.

It couldn't be a mistake. Someone created and hid it deliberately, intending it to be found. I know of only one organization that might have done that. I'm intensely curious what this formula really does.

The door opens, and I tense up a little. But it is another prisoner dressed the same as myself. I'm stunned. I know him. Or *knew* him. He committed suicide rather than reveal the cure. He deliberately pauses near the cloning alcove and nods suggestively.

I'm astonished. But as Sloan glances towards the alcove I understand. 31 takes the best technology they can find. It makes perfect sense that they would take advantage of the Dominion's cloning methods too. I just wonder if this is the clone or the real Sloan? Who died on DS9?

"Sir, I did my best to restore the file. Much of it was gone. I hope it's enough." There is hesitation and anxiety in his tone.

I meet Sloan's eyes. He's feeling me out, trying to decide if I would cure them anyway. I hope he sees how deep the hatred runs now. "I'm sure it will be. Will you be helping?"

He looks away, not meeting my gaze. "I'm to keep you supplied with whatever you need." Again the hesitation, almost *fear*. Sloan's manner is so odd, so submissive, that it's hard not to react. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asks, sounding like a child worried he isn't pleasing his parents.

"Not right now, ugh, do you have a name?" I try to look preoccupied by the padd, which is only partly true. I am stunned by Sloan's manner. Surely, it's an act. But what if it isn't?

"Luther," he says. "I'll be outside if you need me." He leaves the room, almost running away, no trace of the arrogance he had had before.

Had they broken him, or was it an act? Or did he know this was the last remaining hope of ever breaking free of these monsters?

o0o

I have spent the whole day analyzing the padd. I know it's not a cure; I know how to cure them. Whatever it is, it is not complete. I am being careful not to record anything which might show it to be a deception.

I know I'm being watched. I spend the day carefully arraigning the lab to my satisfaction and running various simulations for their benefit. If I look busy, they will have no reason to doubt me.

Whatever problems I had with Sloan before, I'm grateful for his help now. I could neither cure them nor refuse to cure them. But I suspect the answer to my dilemma lies in this padd.

Today I almost regret having to leave the lab because don't want to go back. The others will hear, and I don't know what to say when they ask their silent questions. And some will not be silent. For most of them, I will be a reminder, but until the Founder is cured I'll be tolerated. But Realand will find a way to make me an example. And eventually the moment will come when I must live up to my role in this deception. Then everything will be lost.

But some things don't change. It's been a long time since breakfast and I'm hungry. I have memorized every detail of the padd, and Sloan and I are escorted out of the area.

We separate, Sloan following a guard to his own group in their own cage. But as he goes he makes a curious gesture with his hands, a spiraling of fingers. I'd seen it before, one of the times he intruded into my life. But now he's doing it without even noticing.

As I walk through the gate, I wonder if somewhere out there Sloan has a hidden ship with a transporter, or if he is as trapped as I am.

I can't describe it right, but it's different now, almost like when I discovered Tain's secret work. We will lose, but the Dominion will not win. We too will have that second chance granted the survivors of the heat ray and the smoke.

I know what is on the padd now.

I'm back unusually early, and the crews are here but few others. Neither Miles people nor the communications people have returned, but Ezri isn't out playing with Tessie. I wander back to our quarters, not especially surprised to find both asleep on our bed.

Wandering back, Realand and party arrive. I note he isn't so sure of himself anymore. And its very early for them, even since they've started behaving.

Elaine sits down next to me. "I suppose you'll hear soon enough," she says. "We may go on-line tomorrow. The system test looked good today."

She should be depressed and glum, especially since they'd fought back so long. But she's confident. Realand is the one who sits staring at the table, his wife having already retreated. Whatever her plan, he isn't a part of it.

Someday it will be my turn, the day I have to commit my crime. Somehow, even if I can't like Realand even a little, I do feel for him. But maybe, if what I suspect about the padd is right, I'll be more like Elaine.

"What then?" I ask, wishing I could ask her how much damage the com system will do, how much faster it will end the war. But Miles can probably tell me later.

"We go with the others." She takes a sip of her water, watching me. "You left early. We heard some rumors. I guess one of the crews nearby got hurt, and you weren't there."

"No, not for a while, I guess . . . " She wants me to tell her what I'm doing, and I can't. People will guess, rumors will confirm it, but I'm just not up to saying it.

"I didn't even think of what we were building for them until my Catherine died. Oh, we worked slow, just enough to keep from being locked up like they threatened. It made us feel a little better." She is tired, trying to cope with the last act of the play, but too calm. "Then I realized what it is. By now, well, it probably won't do much for them, but they will have it. That hurts."

"You did what you had to do," I say, wondering if she will make comparisons, or if just perhaps she'll understand my double meaning.

She looks down, nobody watching, and there is a hint of victory in the look she gives me. Then it vanishes. "I didn't care until Catherine died. Then, then it was wrong. All of this is wrong. We're all betraying our own."

Except her. No matter how much she tries it still shows.

Realand stands, moving towards her. "I'd be more careful what company I kept if I were you," he says, ignoring me.

"I'll keep whatever company I want," she says, rather adamant about it. I suspect she doesn't much like him either.

"Suit yourself," he mutters, strolling back towards the rooms.

"Are the rumors true?" she asks. "Do they know?

"Depends on the rumors, I guess," I say, putting her off.

She doesn't give up. "We built it for them. Yes, we had to. But we shouldn't have done it."

I wonder, if Sloan had not offered me the chance to escape from this trap, if I would have done it and hated myself like Realand. Would I have tried to find a way to make it appear to be real? Would I have been able to shut out the reality of my choice like these people have, only to have reality crash down at the end.

Now I won't know. Now, thanks to an enemy I hated I have been spared. But, like Elaine, I have to pretend, act as if I have sold my soul and take the punishment for what they believe I've done. If I cannot make it convincing, I might as well have simply refused. They will have lived a little while longer, but I know that Weyoun and his god will keep their promise. The lives of everyone here are held in my hands and those of Luther Sloan. If I try to spare myself a little pain, ease the burden of truth, I am killing them as surely as the Jem'Hadar will do when they discover my secret.

I have to defend myself, everyone else here. It is necessary now to play my role in this game. "They would have found someone else. They'd have just shipped us to Cardassia. Most of us would be dead by now, or just dead inside."

She watches, sighs. "But when does it end? When do we decide to just call ourselves theirs, bow down to statues of the Founders, and be like all those other places on the other side of the wormhole, the ones that are so scared that one day they'll do something wrong and the Jem'Hadar will come?"

I envy them now. But I remember Teplan, and the blight that punished them for insisting on fighting back. Not everyone signed the treaty, watched nervously as the ships retreated and hoped they'd never come back. But most of them did. Most of the people on those places live ordinary lives, ate enough food, saw their children grow up and never saw a Jem'Hadar. There was a cost, but now, given the choice-and the certainty of the cost, how many places in the Alpha quadrant had chosen to sign and counted themselves lucky?

"There will be plenty of places here, if they give them the chance, that will be very happy to live that way if it means avoiding living like this." It's easier to pretend with the truth. Though I wonder if many will get that offer.

"That's not living," she says, but Ezri comes out then, and Tessie runs to greet her grandmother.

From now on, I'll try to avoid moments like this. This particular one ends quickly with Tessie's enthusiasm and her grandmother's hugs. But not all of them will be escaped so easily.

Ezri steers me back to our quarters. She doesn't waste any time. "Julian, are you working on a cure?"

"Yes," I tell her, hoping she understands. "There wasn't a choice."

She looks at me with curiosity. "You know better than that. But I think I understand. Remember Tina and Catherine. They didn't have any choice either."

She doesn't like it. She thinks I'm stalling, somehow will find a way out of the maze that has no exit. She knows I could have made the cure today if I wanted to. As far as she knows, from now on, each day could be the last, until they run out of patience and the gun is at my head this time. But she would never forgive me if I didn't allow it to fire, if I really did cure them.

Somehow I'll have to tell her, even with walls that have ears.

I won't lose her, not to their guns or their lies.

o0o

Dinner is early. Everyone is here to eat it, even Miles and all his crew, and both Realand and I are given curious glances. But no one says a word. Not to either of us, at least.

Realand makes a point of avoiding me, and I let him. A few others are careful but on the whole its close to a normal evening.

Then, dinner over, we proceed with the further decline of Lemas.

Yesterday, he entered a pact with the devil. His career and then his job have faded, and soon even the flat he calls home will be locked when his rent grows due. His decline is rapid, first small dishonesties, small loans that go unpaid, late arrivals and early departures. His appearance suffers and he starts to drink. He becomes a loner in a profession where that is expected.

Then he disappears, his vanishing connected with a large sum of missing money. His few friends avoid him, uninterested in his constant complaints, and most write him off. Lemas is now truly alone, with no money, no job, and no real prospects for a long run at either. Finally, in need of any work he can get, he ends up at the Labour Exchange and is sent to work at a library.

He does not get on well with Miss Crail, the woman in charge-but meets Liz. Over supper at her flat-his own had no utilities anymore as he hadn't paid the bills, she pulls a bit of humanity out of his failure, and touches his heart.

Ezri and I went to the beach last night, and amid the crashing of the sea and wailing of the wind, I hoped Lemas had found as good a beach as mine.

But tonight, he pushes Liz away too, steals food, and ends up in prison.

It is Daniel's first time to read, and at first his voice is hesitant. But he revels in the words, and I wonder what his life had been before this place. He uses them with such wondrous expression that he makes Lemas' dreary life, far too close to our own, into a new reality.

"You could not keep out the taste of prison, the smell of prison uniform, the stench of prison sanitation heavily disinfected, the noises of captive men. It was then, at night, that the indignity of captivity became urgently insufferable, it was then that Lemas longed to walk in the friendly sunshine of a London park. It was then that he hated the grotesque steel cage that held him, had to force back the urge to fall upon the bars with his bare fists, to split the skulls of the guards and burst into the free, free space of London. Sometimes he thought of Liz. He would direct his mind toward her briefly like the shutter of a camera, recall for a moment the soft-hard touch of her long body, then put her from his memory. Lemas was not a man accustomed to living on dreams."

He stops, as the room becomes utterly still. Not even Realand is moving, his eyes closed, lost in the story. I feel for Lemas. Sometimes, dreams are all you have left, and the world will grind you to dust if you don't trust in them.

Lemas is released, and contact is made by a mysterious man.

"Ashe was typical of that strata of mankind which conducts its human relationships according to a principle of challenge and response. Where there was softness, he would advance; where he found resistance, retreat. Having himself no particular opinions or tastes, he relied upon whatever conformed with those of his companion."

Then, comes a second meeting with Control, discussing the plans for the operation he is acting as bait for, and insisting that Liz be out of the way, unwilling that she become a pawn in the game.

If only I could do that, somehow have Ezri and all the pawns in my game sent to a safehouse in the country, if I could build an invisible shield about them that no harm could penetrate. But Lemas can try. I have no such chance. No matter how desperate his life can become it is preferable to ours.

Lemas is taken in by Ashe, with a camp bed in the drawing room. He has nothing left, and the contacts his new friend provides draw him deeper into the game. Down and out, he should accept, but he knows even he must object a little.

Just as I must not be too willing to talk. Even with the lives of all these people in the balance, Weyoun or his Founder must know my cooperation will not be easy. If I appear too angry they might not be willing to trust my cure without further investigation. If I am too willing I would be inviting the same suspicion. I try to pretend the cure is real, the drug I will eventually make will save them and the rest around me, loathing my presence, will be right. I'm sure I'm being watched; whoever tells Weyoun what to expect from me-I remind myself that they know everything there is to know about me-must be satisfied that my actions are acceptable. I must debate with myself, withdraw a little from the rest, so this new game of pretend will work.

There are too many lives depending on it for it to fail. Tomorrow, Lemas will take a plane ride and the game will go on. Jason Harwell, Brenda's husband, closes the book for the night. We'll all go to bed. Many will go to their own beaches tonight. We could not survive without our dreams.

But I live in the book, in the game. What would Garak have to say? Would he offer advise and critique my performance?

I shut him out, like all the dead so I can play it right and smart and keep the rest from joining them.

My game will not take too long. They will not be that patient. When Sloan slips in the missing parts, I'll be ready.

I shall sleep well tonight, knowing that at last the suspense is over.

o0o

Months ago, when the Federation was not nearly in ruins and Starfleet was more than a desperate collection of anything that worked, a communications system for the station was devised. It would reach further, even sensitive to changes in the wormhole, and any transmissions coming from within would be noted in a special grid. It would speed communications with Earth and the far flung places we used to speak to.

Realand and his wife, Elaine and others, not sufficiently important to stay, were sent here at the desperate hour to install it it was so important. It will never help the Federation. It will never warn of impending trouble for those it was intended. But it is installed, and today it went on-line.

It works perfectly. I was surprised. Somehow I expected it not to, but then I should understand. Lure them in, convince them first. Elaine can't hide her satisfaction enough but she knows the way it works.

So does Luther. He is a wreck, though I still don't know if I believe its real. But he provides all the clues. We make progress, fail, backtrack and advance, all too quickly for me but I'm sure too slow for *them*. We have to balance that too. They have to see a reluctant doctor who took as much time as he could to make the cure, but in the end did as he knew he had to.

I haven't talked to many, but all have been short, rather pointless conversations. Elaine has given up on the attempts at reform. Ezri watches, not quite sure what to believe, but she still goes to the beach.

She is with Tessie, and I'm giving her room. Tessie's grandmother is ill. The work is too hard and she has been coughing all evening. It is much the same cough that Cassie Realand had, that I can't fix. So we let her rest. I'll try to get her excused, but I think the Infirmary doctor has to do it now.

She doesn't seem to care. She just nods when I tell her Ezri will take care of Tessie while she's sick. She doesn't even try to get to the reading.

She's had her moment, even if nobody knows, and she's at peace. If her cough doesn't get better, the swelling go down, she might not see the payoff.

I'm finishing my food. With a two year old to watch and feed and care for, Ezri doesn't have as much time. I don't even notice the voices at first.

Realand is looking at me. It's not rumor anymore. They all know. They don't say what they think, at least most of them. He's far too willing to have his say.

"He shouldn't be eating *our* food. Let them feed him if he's sleeping with them now."

Marta is in the room, just trying to escape the words. But this time he's talking about me. I look up but say nothing. A few people are staring. I look back at my food and try to ignore them. Inside, I despise Weyoun and his guards and his Founder. Like Lemas, I can hardly stop myself from battering down the bars and running. But there is nowhere to run.

"Are you done?" asks Miles.

He hasn't said much. He's fixed the station, kept it running, and the only difference from before is he doesn't complain about the mistakes. But he doesn't like Realand.

Realand glowers at him. "Oh, his friend. You and your people, especially that thing," he says, pointing at Jackson, "Your almost as bad as him. So efficient it makes my stomach ache."

Miles eyes him. "You think you have room to talk? Oh, you worked slow, you worked so ineptly that it's a wonder it ever went on-line. But you gave them something that will kill a lot of people. You betrayed us, would have been a bigger murderer if you hadn't waited. Ever think of just saying no? Ever consider flat out refusing?"

Realand tries to talk, defend himself, but he can't find the words. "You didn't say no," is all he manages.

"I know," says Miles. "I don't know if it was right but I didn't. I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about *you*." He makes his way near the edge of the common area, near Cassie. He slides his hand behind her shoulder and she visibly winces. Everyone looks at Realand. "Don't tell me this came from a *guard*."

Realand glares at him. "Get your hands off my wife."

"She told Keiko," he says, looking at him with disgust. She said she took too many of the covers last night and you retaliated."

He's moving in on Realand now, standing right next to him. "Then you talk to me in private," says Realand.

"I did. You didn't listen. Leave her alone or you'll be very sorry." Miles says it in a low voice, but it carries. So does the frustration behind it. Whatever threat Miles has in mind is probably mostly empty. But he's had to put up with too much. This one little moment of control is making up for all the rest. It makes the threat more real.

Realand backs off. "I'll take responsibility for what we did. But we waited to do it. We didn't rush in to the job like some of the sheep in this room."

Miles follows him. "And you take out the frustration on your wife. Or you did. There won't be another time."

Realand is about to protest, but Elaine comes up, taking Cassie's hand. Coughing, she says, "I have room," and takes her away.

Realand is alone now, staring at Miles. "You have no right," he says. He makes a move to hit him.

He misses. But Miles doesn't. Realand is lying flat on the floor, his cheek red and nose bleeding. Miles looks at me, to the side, trying to keep out of the argument. "Better see if I broke it."

I get up, approach with caution, but Realand backs away. "It's not broken," he mutters, as he pulls himself to his feet and moves away. "And if it was, he wouldn't be touching it."

He goes to his quarters. His wife and Elaine are already gone.

Miles sits next to me. "That felt good," he said. "I've been watching him bully her around for the last week and it was all I could do to put up with him. But I don't have to here."

He surprises me. "You worked on the transmitter with them?"

"A little," he admits. "We do a little of everything."

"How?" I finally ask.

He looks towards his children, playing a noisy game. "Them. I'm not saying I like it. And the transmitter, well, it won't do them a whole lot of good. Not this late. It's not like, well, what you're doing."

Miles is my best friend. He must assume I have some plan, just like Elaine. But I must play the traitor this time, depend on friends like Miles to figure it out on their own. I can hope so. I understand how alone Lemas is now.

Yesterday, his betrayal began. Yesterday he started to answer questions, earn his money. He talks about old operations, old deals and lies, all of it over-but real. It has to be to convince them. Then, the second day, he talks again but this time of his fall and disgrace.

First, show them the working model. Cooperate well, and pull them in. Then later you can lie. That is Elaine's game and my game and the one Lemas is playing. I only hope we all survive it.

Dinner arrives and we hurry it. Everyone is here and those invited to listen-Realand chooses not to show-are ready to go to the story.

And I'm worried. Lemas is being hunted for a violation of the Official secrets act now. This wasn't supposed to be. It would be a few weeks of talking, and then he's to be let loose and it would run its course. But now they are looking for him as a defector, and all the rules have changed.

Something is familiar about this. I remember on Romulas, when the Romulans took me to their interrogation center, how much those probes *hurt*. The game can be dangerous, go wrong. It is already going wrong for Lemas. He's being flown to East Berlin by his new "friends", the only ones who can help him now.

Nothing can go wrong with the games played here. Nothing *dare* go wrong. Then friends of Alec come to visit Liz, lure her away. I worry, for me, for Elaine, for Lemas-for the people we touch. Tessie's asleep, and Ezri is next to me. When they take Liz I put my arms around her, hold her. She looks up at me oddly, but I hardly notice. Taking hostages is a practice I know all too well.

The plane lands in West Berlin, and his entourage drives across the boarder to the East, to the unplanned side of his journey. Lemas is playing it passive, letting them ask, suggest, lead him along. But he's scared. The long drive leads to an room with bare walls and a cot, barracks like. But he's tired, falling asleep fully dressed.

Then morning comes. Black bread and sour coffee are breakfast. And then comes Fielding. Control had mentioned him, made a point of mentioning him. Fielding is smart, reminding him that all he's told so far is what he knows.

Now they want to know the things he isn't aware of knowing. There are guards outside the door. The room is a prison. The food is bad. He isn't allowed to leave.

I remember wondering if the Romulans would execute me. I'd admitted I was playing the game to them, even if indirectly. They could have done it. They could have ended *this* game before it even began.

The chapter ends and we break up, heading towards bed. Ezri looks at me again, the professional and the woman who I fell in love with. "Are you all right, Julian? Don't say its fine this time. I can tell something is wrong."

I never told her the details of the Romulans and the way I was used, nor why I despise Ross so much. It's way too late to start.

"It's the conversation earlier. It's . . . upsetting."

She starts to unbutton my clothes, a wide grin on her face. Not really Ezri, but sometimes that makes the beach more exciting. The beach would be nice. But I keep worrying about Liz and Ezri and Elaine and Tessie. What happens to her? If Elaine is arrested, will they take their hostage? That will tear Ezri apart.

I shrug her off. "I just can't. Not right now."

"Well, okay," she says, the grin vanishing. Jadzia, I think.

I love her, all of her selves. I'm afraid for her. Like Elaine, like Lemas, the full implications of this game I'm playing are too real right now, and the beach should stay a place we go to be free. But there is no safety now, no place to run but through the pathway I've lately taken.

I can only hope there is a road on the other side that doesn't lead to hell.

End, Part 1, Chapter 7 of Surrender


	8. Surrender Part 1 Chapter 8

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 1 – Captivity

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this chapter:

The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, by John Le Carre'

Chapter 8

It's very late. We have been taking our time, not rushing things. My only guess is we're being punished by missing dinner, possibly even the cold saved mess that we usually get when we're late. I've certainly missed the reading.

Do we get the same treatment as Realand and his people if we don't hurry along at the pace they want? Will we get the same threat they do, the rifle and the little cold cell all alone.

I've been in that little cold cell. I dreamed about it last night, after they smashed Lemas in the head, beat him up and chained him. I've been locked inside a tiny box as well, and all of it was too real last night.

His plan, the plan he believed he was to follow, has fallen to ruin. When the Jem'Hadar took me this morning, I kept thinking about how bad my head hurt that day, after they knocked me flat to the floor, how much I doubted I'd ever see freedom or home again after they opened the wall and went searching for Garak.

I thought I could do this, look to cooperate, look to believe that as a doctor I must heal. But I can't. Sloan has slipped more into my hands. I know what will happen. It's a risky plan, with as much to go wrong as with Lemas.

It must not. I keep telling myself that it simply cannot. But I'll read by myself tonight, and have taken pains to avoid conversation. I understand Elaine better. When the book defined my game I could not deny the risk, the betrayal. I don't know if Sloan is as scared as I am. I don't know if he's just broken and wasted inside.

But I remember when he told me I'd be held, and his minions chained my hands, walked me past friends and locked me up for a spy. It wasn't real, but I remember it as it was. I keep glancing at him, wondering if any of that Sloan is still there or if they beat it to death and left only a hull of a man.

I keep watching him, too, and making sure to find things for him to do. We worked very slowly today. I'm just hungry and tired and watching the door. I don't know what would be worse, to miss dinner or the reading, or possibly both.

Lemas' arrest was hard, but then the last few nights have been as well. The story is bringing back too many memories. I keep glancing at Sloan, wondering if he knew all the details of the plot that installed Koval into a secure position of power at the cost of two other lives. Or was he lied to as well? Or was he just another clone, disposable if it went wrong.

I keep thinking of that moment when I was invited to sit in the chair, and knew I had no choice but to obey them. I'll never forget the probes. I was almost looking forward to paying him back, later, with Odo.

I can't get the book out of my mind. I understand Lemas. I lived a little of his life, with Sloan and Ross doing the manipulating that time. It didn't save us, but I suppose they had to try. But I haven't forgiven Ross, never will.

I don't see things the same anymore. I hope Sloan understands I'll cooperate now, without any kind of coercion. But I don't want the last act of our play to come too soon. How long do we dare stall, put off the inevitable.

He finishes with whatever he's doing and sits. "It's getting late," he says, looking at the door.

I ignore him. Sitting in this room alone with him, I remember the lecture I got from Ross. In war there are no rules. Lemas is a casualty in a small war, fought close up. I understand now. I'll willingly help Sloan destroy the monsters. But I can't forget what he did to me. I'd just like to get away from him for a while.

Readings have been sporadic what with our frequent late returns. Sometimes, when more than a few of us are late, readings are held off for later. I hope they did that tonight. I don't want to read the book all by myself.

Finally, long past dinner, we are allowed to go.

We don't go back directly, though. The guards stop us next to a closed hallway which is dark. We're motioned to turn and face the wall, hands up.

I press my palms against the smooth, cold metal, and my forehead as well. We can hear the guards wandering back and forth, Sloan's breathing growing labored.

They shove their rifles against the base of our necks, pushing hard. I tell myself they won't shoot. Unlike Realand and his people we can't be replaced.

But I can't be certain. Forcing my breathing back to even, I wait as they just stand there, shoving them in harder and harder.

Someone comes up behind us, lighter footfalls than the guards.

"This is a warning. Do not play the sort of games the others have. Tonight you will be detained. Tomorrow you will hurry your work or your families will be detained as well. And then if you continue to stall, we will begin deporting them one by one. This is a warning to all of you. Your special status depends on how well you cooperate. No more delays will be permitted."

It is not Weyoun, but a Vorta. We don't move. The rifles are withdrawn, turned and smashed against our heads.

Lying on the floor, I hope Lemas is a little luckier than we are.

Dragged by our shoulders into a small, dark, cold corridor, ending in a smaller, colder and pitch black little room, we are each crammed inside. I can't stand, can barely move, my head is pounding, there is no food or water, and the stench is horrible. I just close my eyes, try to find the beach, Ezri and the waves and the birds in the trees. For a moment she is there, holding me. But I can't despoil the beach this way. I kiss her, but not good bye, and it all fades to the black smelly hole life has led me to.

Tomorrow we'll hurry more. Not too much. We can't rush what we are doing and even the Vorta and the sick Founder know that. But this has been a warning to more than Luther and I. They won't tolerate resistance, not even the hesitant nerves of a man who doesn't want to betray his people.

o0o

Morning. I am so solidly crammed in this box that everything is numb. I was already hungry, waiting for dinner. Now, the door creaking open, I'm hauled out and shoved across the hall before I can try to stand.

Luther is rolled in a little ball, not moving. They kick him in the side, hard. He whimpers a little. I haven't managed to shake off the numbness or sit up yet and expect to be next. But three more kicks and Luther finally rolls out of his ball, shaking badly. He crawls on hands and knees to the wall, ignoring everything but the feet next to him. I've finally gotten to a sitting position, my feet still numb. The stench has permeated my clothes. But I'm more hungry and thirsty than when we were put inside the night before. There is water in the lab, but no food. I have no hope of breakfast. I just want to get to the lab, prove to them we learned our lesson and get back home tonight. I don't want to ever see that little hole again.

Luther stumbles after me as I make my way a little better ahead of him, but neither of us look up, at the guards or the corridor or the rest. The stench will take a long time to go. It will remind me and the rest will make space for the reeking man.

Or maybe not. I try to remember what clean is. I can't really tell anymore.

It takes forever to get to the lab. It takes longer to get started, heads pounding from the blow, grumbling stomachs taking away our attention to detail.

But we work. It's hard to concentrate, but we manage. We don't make a lot of progress, but we don't waste any time either. Neither of us want to ever see that corridor again.

He'd said families. Sloan has a family? But he clearly has someone he doesn't want to end up stuffed inside a dark, smelly box. I wonder if I'll ever meet this person who has given Luther back something 31 took from him long ago. . .

When the door opens and the guards motion us out its hard not to be nervous. They kept us late again. Did we pass the test? Do we get to go home? Do we get to eat?

Food matters more right now that showing off.

They separate us at the accustomed place. I hurry as fast as I can when I know where I'm going.

I see Ezri sitting there with Tessie, staring bleakly at the gate. But mostly I see a bowl of food, cold but mine.

She looks up, instant relief in her eyes. But it fades and she still watches the gate. Everyone is tense. She pushes the bowl to me, and I start to gobble it down.

With what we get, a day is a long time to not eat.

She says, very slowly, "They told us you were being held. We saved the bowl for you like they said."

But why the stares, the worry? "What else happened?" I ask.

Miles is next to me now, looking at my neck and the bruise that is starting to darken. "The new com system failed. They came for them before breakfast. We're all wondering if they come back."

I think of the smelly little hold they'd locked us in, and wonder if the others aren't there now. I don't like Realand. But I don't wish that on him. And Elaine? Is she dead? Has she been beaten or tortured? No wonder Ezri is so quiet.

Tessie is almost asleep. "I've got to put her to bed," she says, picking up the little girl, cuddling her carefully in her arms.

Miles sits down where she'd been.

Here, even if we don't necessary like each other, when someone is missing it is a loss. "Did you know I'd be back last night?" I ask him.

"No. But we figured you would. Or . . . " he stops. He doesn't finish. They know what I'm doing, that all of them are hostages.

"We tried Realand's little trick. It didn't work."

Miles hesitates, looks me in the eye. "How long?"

Before I cure them, I wonder? Or does he expect Weyoun to run out of patience and the whole plan to become disaster. Does he expect me to do it in the end to save these people, just like Realand did.

"I can't say." It's true. That depends on Sloan and the files he gives me.

Miles changes the subject. "We didn't read. Nobody wanted to."

At least they can care enough to wait.

"I don't hear any rumors," I tell him, quietly. "You do. What happens after . . ." After I'm done. The com team will either fix it or die. Miles people are already less busy. I may be the only reason were here.

"They ship people in, then out. We don't know where. Like cargo. They feed them, give them water. Mostly they keep them in the dark. None of the groups here have been touched, not yet but . . . there's less work too. We stay only as long as they need us. Rumor is that some of the tech I'm maintaining will be replaced soon." He grows quiet. "We're here on borrowed time. All of us." He looks me in the eye. "Remember that. We'll probably end up on one of those ships sooner or later anyway."

He means not to do it, to let them die anyway. But now, I can't. Now, I'm committed to Sloan's special revenge, and a way to buy us time. But where will we be then? Scattered, lost?

Kira hasn't said much of anything, that I know, and she comes to sit on my other side. "You're going to do it," she says. No expression, or surprise, or revulsion. Just a statement.

"I haven't said." I keep it simple, true.

"But you will." She looks at Miles. "Don't be too hard on him. He's only trying to save you."

Miles looks towards the gate. "For what?"

Kira reaches across me, touches Miles. "For hope. For the future."

Her tone is odd, uncharacteristic. Her eyes are shining. "Sisko?" I ask.

She closes her eyes. Even Miles is watching. "In the middle of the night, with this blinding white light. He wanted me to know not to worry, that we should trust you to know the best." She pauses. "I think he was lonely. Maybe someday, maybe he'll come back."

Miles stares at the table. "I just do what I have to do."

Kira stops him as he rises. "So does everyone. Even Julian."

Miles retreats, not entirely convinced.

Kira sits again. "That's a pretty bad bruise. How's your head."

"Don't ask. Thanks for not mentioning the stink." Then I look at her, trying to put into words something I never wanted to say. "Look, if you ever see Sisko again, you might tell him that I appreciate it."

It's as close as I'll ever come to forgiving him.

"It won't be easy," she says.

"No," I say, not looking at her. "I have to. Don't ask questions."

She nods. But she believes. Sometimes the road to freedom might not be so easy. I only wish Sisko-or someone-would help me believe that is what will come of this.

The lights blink. Time for bed. I'm more than willing to go, too exhausted to want to read or even visit the beach.

Kira rises with me, letting me lean on her. My head is pounding and all I want is to lay down and sleep.

"Remember," she says as we reach my quarters. "Always believe. No matter what."

Stumbling inside, I step around the little bed we've made for Tessie, and crawl in bed with my wife.

o0o

My head is pounding when the bell goes off, and I sit up slowly. Ezri gingerly examines my neck. "You at all dizzy?" she asks.

If she's asking if I have a concussion, she's probably right. The back of my neck, all around my right ear, is all puffy and sore and bruised. But we both know the rules. Accidents excuse you-sometimes-from work. But not the bad tempers of guards. I slowly drag myself up, Ezri waking Tessie, and manage to stand.

I'm not dizzy, not really, but if I could I'd stay in bed. My eyes still focus, so I won't die of a blood clot from the rifle that slammed into me. The headache is enormous, but nothing can be done about that.

I've sent plenty of patients home like that, and I expect they worked the next day. Open gashes matter more, and the guards managed not to break the skin.

Ezri waits until I'm ready and walks with me. She's careful to stay near until I've been up long enough to wake up. Tessie walks dutifully next to her.

I notice she is calling Ezri mommy.

If Elaine doesn't come back she may do that for along time.

Breakfast is quiet. I get in line, and notice my somewhat shaky stance is noted. Several people let me ahead when it appears we would have to wait for a table.

Maybe the guard did me a favor. Wonder if they'll remember that when they know about the cure. The mush is the same as always, but it's food. It helps the pounding in my head a little.

Tessie goes with Cindy, collecting her charges, and Ezri disappears with the others. I wait with Miles for a while, quietly, until he is called.

I'm called last. There are extra guards. I stumble out the door, and surrounded by them make my way to the lab.

Luther isn't here. It's another hour until he shows, and I make busy motions the whole time. Since I don't have anything else to do, I check out the current state of our research. He's very close to "finding" it all. I can even guess how it works. I wonder, with such complexity, if it hadn't been created long before now.

Maybe this was a contingency, in case the worse happened and we lost. Maybe this was the fall back. But its very intriguing, and possibly equally final.

I decide I won't last the day with the headache and check the supply box. There are a few simple painkillers there and I take one. If they object, they can let me know.

A little while later Luther appears, several padds in hand. He nods, ever the uncertain, nervous assistant.

"I found some more fragments this morning," he says. "Should I load them or would you like to?"

"I'll do it," I say, taking the padds. "Look, how's your head doing?"

Luther looks scared. "It's fine," he says hurriedly.

I hand him a couple of the pills. "Take this. It helps."

Luther reluctantly swallows the pills. I make him sit. He looks a little too pale. He nervously allows me to check him over. "Look, I want you to sit today. Just sit. You can run all the lab tests. It's simple, and I can answer any questions you have. I really need to look over this new material."

Luther is hurting a lot more than I am, and I'm not sure how long he can stand. He sits where I tell him to. He's scared, but does what he's told. Or is it an act? I can't tell.

I spend the morning studying the padds, adding the data to the existing file. Just a little more information and we will be done. But this isn't enough to be certain everything is right without some special tests I'm sure will be refused.

We've already asked to see Odo and been denied. I explained I could glean enough information from an examination to speed up the process, but there was no comment.

So, when the time comes, we'll have to hope the simulation is correct and take the chance.

By mid-day I've run out of lab tests for Luther to do so I move him to supplies, taking a survey of what's there because I don't want him collapsing on me. But I work on the model of the disease, and I can't be faulted for stalling.

Luther looks terrible, and I finally ask. "You have somebody to take care of you? I want you to lie down when you go back, get as much rest as you can. You should feel a little better tomorrow. I'll have a lot of lab tests to do and we'll set it up for you to do them."

He looks up at me, and it's startling. In his head, with Miles, had been a very different man, one that had never been marred by 31. The man before me has his eyes. "I'm a little dizzy," he says.

"The concussion is bad, but you need time and rest. Get all the rest you can at least."

"Nancy will help," he says. His voice is different when he says her name, almost dreamy. I wonder if he loves her, but the look in his eyes is more that of a scared child seeking his mothers comfort.

Whatever she is to him, I'm glad he found her. But if they did that to a hard, cold man like Luther Sloan, Elaine doesn't stand a chance.

Then he does something with his hands, an odd gesture. He's done it before but I didn't really notice. But he's looking at me, repeating the gesture over and over. He's sitting by the lab tests, staring a little left of the door like he'd been before.

I tap his hand, just by accident. His hand drops, but just before it become a ball he quickly points at the tests, and flashes three fingers, then one.

I pretend not to notice. But nobody has come and we don't want to be sitting idly doing nothing. "Let's get these on a tray. I'd like to get them put away." Luther stumbles away for the tray, and I scan the cultured dishes, watching for results.

My gaze settles on dish 31 for a flicker longer, but I see what he means, a reaction that isn't there in the others, a slight bubbling. I don't know what it means. But it has to matter. When Luther returns his hand just happens to shake when he'd lifts dish 31 and the bubbling disappears.

We tidy up a bit, and I scan over the test mixes while making sure it wasn't obvious. Dish 31 had just a slightly different ratio. I note it, but Luther is exhausted, both of us are.

I figure they are listening. "That's about all we can do tonight before these tests finish," I say.

I use Luther's gesture, and he adds, "We'll need the jars too."

It works. A few minutes later the guards show up and lead us home.

The crews aren't back. Either something is wrong or I hadn't realized how early it is. Or perhaps we are being rewarded for working so hard.

Cindy is heavily pregnant now, and at the moment is sitting by herself while the children play. I intend to take the extra time for a nap. If the comm crew doesn't return, and nothing is saved for them, it is likely they are dead. If they do they might need a doctor's attention. I intend to offer my services, whatever I can, even if its not wanted.

But Tessie interferes with my plans. She sees me and runs, nearly tackling my leg. "She'd really like a hug," says Cindy.

I haven't talked to Cindy in a while, except for an occasional exam. I haven't really been too sure what she'd say to me. But now, she's looking out the gate.

"What's it like out there?" she asks.

It occurs to me she hasn't been out of here in months. Everyone else has been hardened by the guards and their random acts of brutality. Cindy has watched children play and seen the general results.

"Don't complain. Your lucky." I can't really explain. I don't know how it is for the others. But she has not had to deal with the guards and by definition is fortunate.

"They say you are," she says, watching as I stretch my back and pull against the bruise and wince a little. "But I guess luck is relative."

"We were stalling," I say, my head pounding, just wanting to go.

"I've heard," she says, hand on moving, rounded belly, "I've heard we won't be here long. Maybe I'll never see it." She doesn't say anything, but she's watching the children now.

"At least they haven't seen whatever it is you can't describe," she says, leaning back, rubbing her baby.

"Miles is better at rumors. He could tell you more." I need to get away from her, the reminder that once their done with us, nobody knows what comes next. But Cindy is in her own world right now, and I don't want to disturb her. Shrugging, I pick up Tessie. "I've got to lie down."

She's still watching the children when I go, and I remember the months she spent hiding in the hills from the Cardassians. She knows what this is doing to them, will do to the child inside her. I wonder if perhaps her life here, left alone with the mind to wander, is harder in its own way than the one left to the rest.

Later, I wake up to find Ezri curled up next to me, sound asleep. Tessie is cuddled in my arms. I have watched the children here, knew a few before, but I keep them at a distance. It doesn't hurt so much to think of their futures that way. But Tessie has passed through the barrier. I'm used to her. I can't imagine how a two year old child copes with losing most of her family.

Then someone bangs on the door. "They're back!"

Ezri and I get up, untangling ourselves from each other and Tessie on the narrow bed. Sitting at one of the tables, looking much the worse for wear, Realand is just blankly stares down at the surface. His wife is half-collapsed, and as I get nearer I can tell how hard it is for her to breath. Both women are ill. And I recognize the stench from their clothes.

"It's working again," says Realand, exhausted. We worked all night, haven't had anything to eat since they took us. He keeps staring at nothing. Then they had . . . questions." He slumps down. "We were told our delays caused the sloppy work. They'd have to investigate to see if it was deliberate."

I watch Elaine, seeing fear in her eyes. They didn't find it, not this time. But they will and she knows it won't take long.

He goes on, his voice dragging now. "Then they stuffed us in these little cages."

He grows silent. A few people glance at me.

"I should look you over," I offer. Not that I can do much, but the gesture matters. For once, we are united.

He waves me off. "Bruises, that's all. They wouldn't kill me just in case something else goes wrong." There is a hint of pride, but fear as well. He looks at the women. "Don't think you can do anything, but check them over." He stumbles off, slow and lost.

Cassie and Elaine pull themselves to their feet. I leave Tessie with Ezri and follow to help. Elaine pats the child on the head as she passes, but it is as if Tessie is already ours.

Inside their quarters, I can tell why. Cassie is worse, but Elaine is very sick. I hope it's not some kind of epidemic.

"Don't worry, we're not catching," says Elaine, her voice dragging. "There is a section of the com system, what with the metallic dust and the gas it gives off you encase it in a sealed work space when you open it. We had the equipment. But we weren't allowed to use them. They said it would be too slow, we'd already wasted too much of their time. So we didn't have anything to keep from breathing it into the lungs."

Punishment, I guess. Like the headache and the room, the "special" lose their immunity when we misbehave.

"There's a treatment," says Cassie Realand, her eyes sad. "My daughter sold herself for it, but I don't want you to do that. It isn't worth the cost."

"This time's the second exposure?"

"Yes, I put it together the first time, and had to fix it this time. They told Ellie to help."

"Anything I can do?" I ask, feeling helpless.

Elaine takes my hand. "Just give my granddaughter a good home."

I leave them to their own, especially limited borrowed time.

o0o

The cart was late again, and despite my pounding headache, my stomach refused to let me go. Ezri was quietly playing with Tessie. I played a little with her too. I guess I'll get better with practice.

But making us sit in silence while we wait, no safe subject of conversation occurring to anyone, is their way of control. Nobody missed how sick the women were, or how defeated Realand sounded. But they were back, not dead, and we were all relieved.

Families can argue among themselves, but attack from the outside and they come together.

Cheryl Jackson hasn't said much, kept mostly to herself and watched her children very carefully, but she stands and makes an announcement. "I'm going to read first," she says.

It's been three days since a reading. The idea appeals to everyone.

Cheryl is sitting, book in hand, while everyone is arraigning themselves. At least for now, we are whole again. We will, once more, reclaim the magic.

Magic for some. A glimpse of nightmare for me.

Lemas wakes, hands and feet secured behind his back, head pounding, and in agony every time he moves. My head is already pounding, and the little stinking room is too close. They didn't tie me but I couldn't move, couldn't stop the pain that build as the horrible night went on. Then they untie Lemas and let him try to get up, let him fall and beat him.

I guess I was lucky. They didn't finish the job. But there is no reaction to the beating. It's something guards do.

Then he's taken into an office, fed food we don't dare even dream about, and questioned. We'd be happy if the cart would arrive. I remember the warning I'd gotten, for everyone they said. Is the late cart a reminder of what we are?

But the story is starting to take my mind off the last few days, even if my headache won't quit. Lemas is accused of being part of a plot to frame his enemy. Lemas of course denies it. But they want a confession. They need his word to convict the other part of the power struggle. Lemas again refuses. His head is pounding, his stomach in pain. He has a choice, just like I did. He can confess, go to a soft bed and be given decent food. Or he will be tied like an animal and fed on the floor of his cell like one.

I know about isolation rooms. I know, after a day, what they do to your mind. Sloan and I will be very careful to cooperate-or at least appear to. I'll bet Realand, for all his bitterness, will too.

Lemas is hurting, sick, confused. He can't confess. He can't tell his tormentor what he doesn't know.

A voice in my head. Garak. "He could lie."

"The wild pulsation of his brain suddenly increased, the room was dancing; he heard voices around him and the sound of footsteps; spectral shapes passed and repassed, detached from sound and gravity; someone was shouting, but not at him; the door was open, he was sure someone had opened the door. The room was full of people, all shouting now, and then they were going, some of them had gone, he heard them marching away, the stomping of their feet was like the throbbing of his head; the echo died and there was silence. Then like the touch of mercy itself, a cool cloth was laid across his forehead, and kindly hands carried him away."

He finds himself in a hospital bed, the windows not even barred. His tormentor's chief enemy is there. Lemas is still to be a witness at a tribunal. Just a different one, and later, should he cooperate, he might escape being tried for the murder of the guard he killed before.

His tormentor has been arrested, and it is alleged that he was turned by British Intelligence to spy for them, and is a traitor. Lemas, by being sent after Fielding, was to secure his position and eliminate the greater danger he faces.

He's been maneuvered into a trap, just as I was. Senator Cretak tried to help me, only to be arrested. I told them everything to save her, but then that was just what they expected me to do. And Koval, now proven to be loyal, could spy for the Federation while he remained loyal to his own side.

The tribunal begins, Lemas watching from the side. The case is presented in detail, but he is the chief evidence. He testifies, but does not believe it, will not say it.

But the lights will blink soon. We have read all we can for the night. Miles hands the book to me. "If Elaine and the others want to read it . . .

Maybe Realand, but the women are too sick. But I can ask.

The rest go, and still holding the book I leaf through it, back to the last part we'd read which feels like an age ago. A particular passage catches my eye.

"Aware of the overwhelming temptations which assail a man permanently isolated in his deceit, Lemas resorted to the course which armed him best; even when he was alone, he compelled himself to live with the personality he had assumed. It is said that Balzac on his deathbed inquired anxiously after the health and prosperity of characters he had created. Similarly Lemas, without relinquishing the power of invention, identified himself with what he had invented."

Ezri would let them die anyway. Miles would have me refuse in the end. How many more? Deep inside, I wonder if I could do it, could really save them. I will, but only for a time. But the others will not know, and I will be the man who betrayed his own.

Who am I becoming, stalling and taking the punishment, then carefully making sure it won't happen again? I will not betray my people. But in their eyes I will be one with the monsters. How can I live with that? I eat the same food as the others, obey the same masters, and yet I hold their lives in my hands. There is an unstated arrogance in my manner. I've been set apart, but the ties have not yet been cut. I'm Lemas living a lie, but hoping to still go home. When my moment of truth comes, when my betrayal becomes complete, will I drift as he is, hoping that somewhere there will be a forgiveness? Or will I let Weyoun own me because it is the only thing left?

They won't let us stall. The next time there will be more than a cold smelly cell, and I won't send my wife to one just to show them some imagined rebellion. Someone will punished for our delays. The last of our people have gone to bed and the lights are flickering. I have to go to my quarters.

We will get our revenge for them all, for the people I knew and the countless others who are gone. But for me, as with Lemas, "whatever happened, things would never be the same again."

o0o

Sloan and I have been waiting an hour for the guards to open the door. We are being punished for being so unproductive today. We ran a lot of tests, but every scenario and experiment we've done has gone nowhere. We know they are watching. None of the tests were intended to be successful, but they may have interpreted it as more stalling.

I check the tests again, hoping they'll buy it. I tell myself even they cannot assume that every day will show progress.

If they wait too long we'll both miss dinner, assuming that none will be saved, and it's been a long time since breakfast. Sloan, next to the door, flashes me a signal that he hears noise. We've worked out a few other hand signals that help when you don't dare say things out loud. I don't use them, but Luther's hands are often shaking and wandering, so they don't know when he does. We both watch the door and are greatly relieved to see the Jem'Hadar waiting for us to leave.

Or worried. My head still aches, and Luther sat and ran the lab tests since he's still too dizzy. There was nothing in the supply box to take today, though it had a few left last night. Serves them right that we aren't doing all that well when we're still recovering from our discipline.

Just as long as we don't have to do it all over again.

Sloan nods, his hand clenched in a particular way. He'll have more to add tomorrow. We'll look like we made progress and probably be back early tomorrow evening. We must appear to be cooperating. But it must not be too easy either.

I'm not sure if I mind missing the reading tonight. There are too many memories coming to life. Very hesitantly, earlier, Luther caught me staring at him. He ask, tripping over the words, if there was a problem. This isn't the Luther Sloan that lured me into that trap, but he reminds me of it. I wanted the day to end and to get away from him.

I worry that there is so much damage that he is leading us all to disaster. But I have to try. The war won't last much longer and his plan may be the only way out.

Spies and their schemes haven't changed over the years. When Sloan played me like a puppet and secured his own man in the Romulan hierarchy, he could have stolen the plot of the book almost as it was written. Or, perhaps it is more of Sloan's classic technique, like depriving me of sleep and food the first time. But despite our own desperation and my new appreciation of Sloan's skills, I cannot forgive him for what they did. It changed, forever, the image of the Federation, its ideals compromised and its image darkened.

Listening to the story, I lived the nightmare again. I could hear my own words, hurting and scared as the Romulan Continuing Committee forced me to testify and my words came to destroy Senator Cretak, a decent and loyal woman just as those of Lemas could seal Fielder's fate. Kovel was secure, but even Ross was a little ashamed of the method. He even believed he could work with 31 without being owned by them. I remembered my own bitterness at being manipulated with lies, just as his own did with Lemas.

It hurts more when your own are pulling the strings. We live with no real options at all now, but it's imposed upon us by our captors. We expect little but force and brutality from them. We had a much higher standard when we lived within our own laws, and no matter how bad this life is it cannot erase the devastation I came to know when they took away all my illusions.

Finally parting from Luther, I'm impatient with the pace of my guards tonight. Normally they rush past things too fast. I watch as the corridors are changing to an alien place, and continue to wonder when there will cease to be any need for us. Tonight, I am both hungry and impatient for the book. If I missed the reading I'll do it in private. No matter how hard it is to face Luther, no matter how bitter the memories it brings back, I need to find out what happened. Reading by myself isn't the same as hearing the words spin the image, but would do. I can close my eyes and leave here for a little while.

I need to know that Lemas gets a little of his life back. I remember too clearly how mine was changed forever.

I notice immediately that Ezri isn't out, but Kira is sitting there with a bowl beside her. She calls me over.

"They let us save some. You must be behaving."

I start on the bowl. She's quiet and thoughtful and resigned. She gives no clue to the reason for the empty room.

"Ezri's okay," she says before I have a chance to ask. "She had a minor accident and saw the doctor. I made her stay in bed."

"Thank you," I manage between mouthfuls.

"She twisted her ankle, got a few cuts. Nothing all that bad," she finishes.

"Why's the room empty?" I ask.

"Nobody was in the mood to read," she says.

I'm disappointed, and relieved. I really wanted to hear the story, but not alone. "What happened?"

"The Klingons surrendered yesterday."

Lemas and his problems, Elaine and I, fade to nothing for a moment. I simply can't imagine how bad it had to get for them to give up. There must have been very little left for the Dominion to take by the time it was done.

First the Romulans, now the Klingons. Now the Federation is entirely on it's own. How many smaller surrenders had there been before that we didn't hear of? The Ferengi? The Trills? Ezri doesn't speak of it, but she has heard nothing of her own species survival-or fate.

"What else?"

"Nobody knows." She stares forward. "I need you to look at someone when your done."

She watches as I use fingers to scrape the last mush from the bowl. Vaguely, I remember when I would have considered it something very rude. "They fought as hard as Cardassia, harder . . . "

And Earth would do the same. I think of the work I'm doing with Sloan, how this will change my future reception, how most of the Klingons are probably dead by now.

But the monsters will die, not now, but die. My head still aches, but if the game works I don't care.

I notice Kira has the book with her. "We caught up a few people," she explains.

I take it, flipping through the pages, reviewing the last reading. I pause at Liz, lured away from a proper party job with the family she is living with in Leipzig by a man with a government car.

There was no Liz in my version of the book, a pawn in the game despite Lemas' attempts to keep her safe. But there *is* now, in this double life, and I fear for Liz and Lemas, once their use is fulfilled. Each day that Sloan and I come a little closer to their "cure" her safety-and the safety of all the rest-grows less secure. How soon will we too be expendable?

Kira has something else on her mind. I'm still cleaning my bowl. "I saw Odo today." She looks at me, considering something. "He told me about the Breen. They went home. They didn't believe the promises they had gotten either."

We are silent for a moment, both glancing at the gate and the passing Jem'Hadar. Kira's gaze lingers longer than mine.

"Not that it made that much difference, now that they have the wormhole," I say, resigned, thinking, too, of the Romulans and the Klingons.

Kira stares at the gate. I just close my eyes and try to forget the kind of world the Martians left for the victors after the pox had killed them. The Klingons who survived would be slaves the rest of their lives. How many of them would go the way chosen by Worf? They had resisted much too hard to be allowed to simply surrender.

There is a lesson there for the Federation, what's left of it. They are apparently not heeding it. The Dominion is having to take every bit of territory it captures. The Federation is not making any of it easy.

They have little hope of holding out long enough for us. If only Sloan could hurry with his segments of formula, if we could finish soon. Now that it's obvious we won't be allowed to stall I'd like to be done, even if it leaves me alone. Somehow, it might give *home* a little better chance. But I have to leave the padd there at night. I'm sure someone reviews everything I've done. Everything must look as if I discovered it myself.

We are very close, just a few more files and "all" of it will have been recovered. Today's tests verified we cannot yet cure them. But I'm sure the phony formula will cure the phony disease when it's done. They can do all the checking they want. They are probably doing their own research based on today's results. I assume the end result will look the same as the real cure when they test it on changeling goo.

Not that we'll see it, but I'm sure they'll test it themselves before we give it to the Founder.

"They let him know that rations would be cut off if he didn't give up, so he finally did." She stares out at the hallway again, her face grim. "He was . . . watching. He said he misses the books."

"How is Odo?" I ask, tired. They need me now, but in the end she has the edge when it comes to guaranteed survival.

"Well, but they won't let him near the Vorta or Jem'Hadar. He's being disciplined for the bomb. Hard to turn off their DNA." There is a certain amount of pride in her tone about Odo's loyalty to our side, and the careful way he's being handled.

I understand why she'd picked me to talk to. We both enjoy a certain degree of immunity right now. Her's will last longer than mine. I'd rather not be reminded.

"You said something about looking at someone," I suggest, a little annoyed.

She gives me a curious glance, but shrugs. "My quarters . . . "

o0o

Marta is sitting on the bed, composed but worried. She's only fourteen, but has learned how to survive. Or, perhaps long before the Jem'Hadar and Dominion she'd knew how best to live with bullies.

She goes out every day, works-though with the younger group most of us are not a part of, and returns about the same time. When the room is empty she hides in her room until dinner, but when the food is there she eats quickly by herself and slinks back to Kira's room. Since Kira was hurt and she took such good care of her, Marta is tolerated if she stands in the back of the room during readings, but she's still very much alone.

Working under the Jem'Hadar is one thing. The guards are brutal and uncaring, but they were designed to be that way. Everyone understands cooperating with them. Doing jobs which may help the enemy, like Miles, are tolerated, especially by those who are here because we are here. But Marta slept with traitors who quite clearly switched sides, who betrayed everything. Kira understands that point of view, and offers her a floor for reasons peculiar to Kira herself. But Marta isn't to be forgiven, even if she did it to save her mother.

We have become very hard people who have forgotten how to forgive.

Kira stands guard at the door, or perhaps she is acting as a chaperone. The door is closed, but flimsy enough she can hear.

Marta looks me in the eyes, with no compromise. "I saw them earlier. How sick is my mother?"

She's scared, worried she's about to lose everything. I still don't like her, but I can understand that.

I won't lie to her. "Very sick. There's nothing I can do about it."

She eyes me calmly, on the verge of anger. "You mean with what you have here."

"No. Without a full lab and hospital I suspect it wouldn't make a difference. I can't really examine her, but this is her second exposure."

"Bastards," she says, her eyes flashing a deep hatred of everything. "You're saying she's going to die, whatever happens to the rest of you."

"Yes." But I wonder at the wording. The rest of us?

"I want to see my mother . . . tonight." It is not a question.

"That would be up to her." I will not impose Marta on her if she refuses to see her daughter.

She is very calm and cold now. "I've had an offer. He said he'd marry me. I told him I'd agree for a price. If there is anything I could get to make my mother even suffer less, I'll get it. Consider it a wedding present." She eyes me with eyes of ice. "I'll make sure nobody suspects."

I might consider it, but I'm not sure. "You know the deal. You do that and Kira kicks you out."

"I won't be coming back. That's why I need to see her tonight."

I'm stunned by the cold, calculating eyes. She is still a girl, but left her youth behind a long time ago. "Why?"

Then she transforms, almost as instantly as Ezri does, into a coy, suggestive woman. Her eyes, exotic and beautiful despite the dirt and drab clothes, are inviting. He body is ready, drawing her target near. She smiles a smile designed to entice, and I am almost interested myself. Almost. But all of it is an act, a cold deliberate play for attention. I'm sure, once the target is taken in, she is capable of carrying on the ruse no matter what is asked of her. She did it before.

Still the temptress, she purrs, "See, I can do it. They like their flunkies with wives, and I've got the looks. At least now. I have to use them while I have them."

I see what she's up to. She drops the pose, again the calculating survivor. I decide it wouldn't hurt anyone to let her help one last time. "I suppose you might as well. If your mother could breath a little easier it might help, but she'll never take it if she knows."

She looks satisfied. "Something you can add to breakfast, since she gets it brought to her anyway. I'll tell him." She eyes me levelly. "Don't make me out to be some kind of heroine. We both know none of these people here will ever accept me. I have to take what I can. As for him," she pauses and I assume she means Realand, "I hope they shoot him. He deserves it."

Kira taps on the door. Sliding inside, she looks at Marta. "Don't expect too much and you won't get it. But your mother wants to see you."

She softens, just a little. Kira escorts her out of the room, and Elaine enters. I suppose they will want privacy. Elaine is worse, her breathing shallow and with each breath she wheezes. She doesn't have much time. Maybe Marta's wedding gift will help. Her mother won't last long enough to need much of it.

"Good riddance," she says, looking towards the door where Marta had gone.

"She's just surviving." I sit down on Kira's chair. "She won't be here to bother anyone."

Elaine is leaning back against the wall now, and I'm reminded of Tain in his last days, the transmitter done and the only thing left to wait. "Take care of Tessie, promise." She's done what she had to, like him, and is just waiting for it to be over.

"Promise," I tell her.

We sit, each alone in our thoughts until Kira takes her home. Marta is subdued, quiet, all the coldness gone for a while. Tomorrow she'll give herself to a traitor and her mother might live a little longer. Maybe even Elaine.

Soon enough, I'll take her place.

Just as long as they don't blame Ezri too. She might shut me out. If she does I'll accept it. Somehow, there has to be some way to tell her. But it's too dangerous.

She'll either trust me or not. Nothing I can do about it.

Kira knows, thanks to Sisko, but she won't give it away. Even if she didn't she might see through my act. Maybe Miles would too. He's keeping the station running for them so they can condemn us to generations of slavery. But he has a family, children. I guess I do too, now.

But the rest ...

I keep thinking of the lost look on Daniel's face as they arrived, the certainty that it was already over. The Klingons are probably gone by now. Will we be next? Will those of us scattered here and there be all that's left of my kind?

As long as it works, whatever plan Sloan has in mind, I don't care. It would be a small price to pay for a chance at freedom.

End, Part 1, Chapter 8 of Surrender


	9. Surrender Part 2 Chapter 9

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 2 – Necessary Compromises

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this chapter:

Childhood's End, by Sir Arthur C. Clarke

Chapter 9

Ezri is standing by the door of our room, dinner over and the reading just broken up. The light from the small hallway casts a silhouette around her.

I do not recognize my wife. It is not only the increasing shifts in her personalities, but the way she's slumped against the door, braced against it as if it is a shield. Gone are the quicksilver darts of energy that characterized her movement before. Her pixy-short hair is growing out in shaggy clumps, falling halfway down her neck. She is starting to look like the others who recently received obligatory shoulder length trims after an accident with long hair and a machine. It would be nice to think that their safety was the reason, but we all know it was the delay caused by the accident.

But the hardest change to take is the look in her eyes. She is staring at me. Before there was a spark of excitement about the day, even after the firefight at Chintaka and all the rest we went through in the last days of our war before capture ended that part of our lives. Now there is wariness and exhaustion, with a fair dose of fear. She spends her day under the Jem'Hadar's control, under constant threat of accidents and reprisals. She holds Tessie and for a little while I lose her, preoccupied by the responsibilities and joys of the child. She eats her bowl of mush as if it was a banquet, and gives herself to the story.

The only hint of the woman I knew is late in the night, cuddled close to me, when she and I play Pretend. We let the world drop away and this grimy little hole transforms to a distant beach, with the waves and the birds and the scent of flowers. Sometimes it is day, with the bright sun warming us. Sometimes it is night, a bright moon casting a glow on the water. It is our beach. We make it as we wish. We give ourselves fully and without reserve to the other and probably wake up the neighbors with the loud squeak of the bed. Tessie sleeps through the noise, once she's asleep, waking only when her tooth hurts or she has a bad dream.

When we go to the beach, it is our place. Amid crashing waves and the scent of flowers, we forget for a night that the morning will bring the same grimy room and the same alarm that begins our days. Even now, with her growing uncertainty about my present job, she still plays Pretend.

Before Tessie, without that-and our books-there wouldn't be anything to wake up for.

Ezri's still staring at me. She hasn't said a thing about what I'm doing, but she thinks about it. I catch her watching me now and then as if she is trying to make up her mind. And there is the distance, growing worse, especially as tired as she is with Tessie and her long day. I help, but she has a special bond with the child now. If it helps her cope I won't interfere. But the moment is so near when the game is up, when Sloan and I make our move. I know I shouldn't tell her, can't tell her openly. But she must know that I have not betrayed them-nor will I. I would like to think she has enough faith in me to see beyond the deception. But this place demands a heavy price and faith is the first casualty.

She knows I'd do anything to save her from deportation. No doubt she believes that would include betraying the rest. Now and then she says almost nothing to me all day-when things have gone badly, when the day has been too long and she's exhausted with the child. But she watches. She always seems to notice the times when Sloan has slipped in another clue and even away from the lab I can't stop thinking about it.

At least, I think she notices. She never talks about what goes on during the day, and never mentions the bruises I see now and then. And when she can get by with it, very careful since Tina's death that they don't notice, she gives the guards looks full of venom.

The hardest times are when she isn't Ezri, when she lets some other part of herself cope with life. She hardly sees me then. I need her so badly, especially now, but dare not intrude. I don't share the worse part of her life and have no right to make the days harder.

I am afraid of losing her. Perhaps to the guards or an accident, but more to one of the others inside. Once, I wondered if it was Ezri I loved and now I know as I watch her suddenly fade away.

I need our readings. It is the only time I can shut out the formulas and the havoc we are going to wreak on the monsters that are destroying us. It is the only time I push away the fear of being alone.

But as she stands there, watching, Lemas and his final choice haunts me. If, somehow, they took Ezri away I don't know if I'd care much anymore whatever came of things. No matter how much she changes, she is still my anchor.

So many of the books are about monsters, but other monsters than ours. And it is easier to read about other monsters. I can forget about our own for a little while. We started a new book tonight, a relatively short one called Childhood's End.

It is another novel about the coming of paradise. This time it is the gift of alien overlords. But it is not an easy path. The Overlords, waiting unseen in their ships above the world's major cities, have done nothing but good works. But the people of Earth are still suspicious, and many distrust the alien's ultimate goals.

Beyond that, there is a sense of something wrong despite the beneficent rule. I almost wonder if somehow we got this book as a hint that had we cooperated instead of fought, we too might live under the kindly peace of Dominion rule instead of surviving as slaves. We read almost a quarter of the book tonight but despite it being late nobody wanted to stop. After the next chapter the golden age will come, and if the lights hadn't blinked we would have read that as well. But we'll have something to look forward to tomorrow. We wonder what is such a secret that the Overlord Karellen cannot show himself, and worry that his vision of paradise is a little to close to that of the Founders.

But it's so much easier to worry about Karellen and his mysterious race than our own uncertain lives. People glance at me, wondering, but keeping it to themselves. The crews are never late anymore. Even Miles and his crew have less to do. Time is running out, and we don't want to consider what comes next.

Perhaps that is what has put Ezri into this mood. I have decided I must tell her, not just for myself, but so she will know that we will get our revenge.

She's still staring, but moving towards me now, hands on hips. I've been anticipating this moment for a long time. I don't know if I look forward to it. But I can't stand the silence anymore.

"Don't do it, Julian," she says.

It's Ezri. I'd almost prefer it be one of the others, except Jadzia or Joran.

I've gone through this in my mind so many times. I know what I have to say. But it is very hard to put it into words. "I have to."

She turns away from me. "After what they've done-you can still say that." I can hear the bitterness in her voice.

Nobody from our group has been killed since Tina, but a lot of people have been hurt, including Ezri. It's just a matter of time before someone else is killed or another accident becomes sabotage. I am as scared as the rest. I have to live here too. But if I don't cure the changelings, all of these people die. Hasn't this occurred to her at all, or to any of the others? Does it matter as much to them as it does to me?

Kira knows, because she is watching me very closely. I believe she's mentioned it to Miles. He tried to bring up the subject once. But the rest . . .

Ezri must know. Somewhere in all those lifetimes must be one host that understands, certainly Curzon. But I can't deal with the thought that she is already too damaged to allow herself to see it. Or maybe she does and remembers that once I would have done it simply because otherwise it would be murder.

At least our stint in isolation made it plain we have no particular special "privileges" they all thought I had.

"If I don't they'll kill all of you. For starters."

I remind myself that they'll do the same if they find out the cure isn't real. I remind myself that I have to be very careful what I say, even here in the privacy of our quarters. I hate to let go of the illusion.

Ezri is looking at Tessie, sleeping soundly tonight. She's been cutting a tooth, and fussed a lot. But the tooth is done now and she fell asleep early. I look at the soft, gentle expression on her face, love her all the more. It will change after our talk. Right now, I wish Odo had never been cured. Then we wouldn't have to have this conversation. Then Ezri could have this moment of peace last a little longer.

Ezri must know I will not betray my own. I can't bear losing her, and I will if she comes to believe I've betrayed them. Somebody besides Sloan must understand.

Then, she is absolutely serious when she says, "Then we die. But don't sell yourself to them."

Somehow, I must find a way for her *alone* to understand. I take her hand and pull her towards me. Her uncertain, worried eyes meet mine with a trace of hesitation. "It will work out," I say. I grip her eyes with mine and try to let her see everything I cannot put into words.

Sloan once had a wife. Is this how he lost her, a little more with each lie, with each secret he couldn't explain until the secrets mattered more?

She draws back, considering things. "It works out," she says. "For who? For you? Me? For *us*? What about the rest of these people?" she asks, confusion and a trace of hostility in her eyes.

Does she think, once I'm done, that I'll be granted a reward, some comfortable cabin with a replicator and a nice suit, washing daily with a clean-shaven face, like the man Marta married?

Or will I? Will I be forced to choose between these people and the ones they hate more than the guards?

Kira believes it will work out. Sisko told her, probably in grandiose phrases. But the game is very hard to play, and I know some of the choices are hard. I just didn't know how hard it would be when I first looked at the padd.

I understand the game. I know what I'm going to do is breaking all the rules. It is a risk, but one I have to take. I know our quarters are monitored and I should not tell her anything, not endanger everything with a careless word.

But Ezri must believe in me. I cannot stand to have her think me a traitor. I pull her close and she lies next to me, but does not relax. "I'm not in the mood," she whispers, pulling away.

I kiss her anyway. I'm too tense and worried, no more in the mood than she is. But the bed squeaks. The noise will not interest whoever is listening. Sometimes our games get especially noisy. "Please, pretend you are. Just this once. Please. I need you." I finally get her to meet my eyes and hope she sees the silent plea for her to listen.

Something must get through because she kisses me back. But it is too mechanical and she hasn't relaxed at all. She rolls over and opens the top of her clothes. They were replaced recently and a little big. "If you insist," she says, a small hint of playful interest. "It might be fun. Night, I think. A full moon this time. Just the water, lots of waves, but no birds." She is willing, but she makes no attempt to touch me.

We haven't gone to the beach too often since I started working in the lab. I don't know if it's because I have been preoccupied or she's been unwilling.

I start undressing her. She allows me to, leaning back and relaxing a little, and finally starts to reach for me. The forest is here now, silent except for the rustle of wind. The waves are constant, the tide swirling around our sandbar. Above us, the full moon shines a bright light on our world. Not a word is said but at least she smiles, slides my clothes over my shoulder, tickles my chest a little.

Sliding her clothes down her arms, I stroke her back. She responds for a second and there is a small catch in her breathing.

She pulls herself up, and begins undressing me. She's not in a hurry but I can see the anticipation in her gaze. It isn't passion. There is need but it's not so urgent we have to have each other at this moment. But we both know how lucky we are to have the beach and each other and be able to lose the world for a little while.

I think of Marta, but she has no beach or joy or release. She gives herself because she has to, because it's a way to survive. Some of the places they have us it's a stranger and some extra food, or a favor that's being traded for. Privacy has ceased to matter. I hope there is some pleasure, some release for them too.

The waves quiet, the forest fades. The sandbar becomes a bed that squeaks. But I am momentarily tempted to go back, just lose myself in Ezri and the beach tonight and hope she somehow understands.

The bed is making a lot of noise, but I still have no idea what to say to her. The words still have to make sense and double meanings will have to do.

She whispers in my ear, nibbling hard on my earlobes as we wriggle out of our clothes and the bed squeaks even louder under us, "Who's pretending?"

It's a teasing line said in hopes of finding me in a better mood. But it gives me an idea. If anyone is listening it might sound like a nights normal conversation.

They must be used to Pretend.

"I need to believe you really care," I say. I try to make her see there is more with my gaze. I don't know if she does.

She pulls back, draping her blanket around her, disappointed. "You know I do."

This isn't going right. "Just for tonight, pretend the only thing that matters is that we have a good time."

"Hmmm," she murmurs. She relaxes a little. She almost smiles.

I can hear the waves now, feel the spray. The forest is looming over us. I haven't said what I must but the beach is luring me closer, the waves cleaning away all the fear and anxiety.

I draw her close and kiss her again. I pull her body closer, nuzzling her ear, working my way down her spots. I whisper, "It has to be convincing or it's no good." I draw my hands down her chest, playing with her breasts. She is aroused, moving about, the waves splashing so loud, covering us in their spray.

But I can't enjoy the beach yet. I have to make her understand. The waves draw away, the forest recedes. We are on the cot, Tessie sleeping on a matt floating on the sea which shimmers around us. The bed is loud, its racket persistent. Abruptly, I lean over and whisper so quietly I'm worried she won't be able to hear. "If it's not it will be all over."

My tone of voice is different, colder, bitter-more normal, at least for here. She grows still, my hands still cupping her breasts.

She must notice. I wonder if she loses the beach too. "I'll try," she says hesitantly. I can't tell if she understands or is just confused.

Pressed against me, her body is too tense. I massage her gently, the nipples growing hard in my hands, as she starts to relax. "For us," I say. All of us, everywhere that have been stolen by this war, I think. But now she's using her hands, taking them to all the right places. I kiss her again, a hungry kiss she returns in kind. The bed squeaks and moans. The water swirls and the sand is growing soaked and smooth.

I hope the roaring of the waves will cover the whispers.

She slides down to my chest and working hands and tongue and hips makes a very convincing impression. The forest rustles, the gentle breeze now a wind churning the water around us, drenching us in its frenzy. It's difficult to keep my mind on anything but her busy hands. I dive under her and without thinking grasp her suddenly then push her down hard.

She's startled, staring at me with momentary surprise. I release her and she starts to pull away but I stop her. "I don't like this game," she says, very quietly.

"I don't either," I say. The beach is still here, but dim, fading. I want it back. I drop down next to her, stroking her body as she moves with mine. A particularly loud squeak is persisting and my mouth is next to her ear.

I'll never have a better chance. "Keep up the noise," I whisper. She rolls over slowly, the squeak very loud. She is staring at me. I face her in the dim light and with little more than breath, I tell her. "There won't be a cure, but they'll think it is."

It isn't quite the truth. But it's close enough.

She stares at me, stunned. "Nobody else can know," she adds in another nearly silent whisper, while we continue to explore each other's secret places. The waves churn and the froth spatters us as we slide around the sandbar, hungry for each other, needing to escape facing the reality I'd put into words.

The next kiss is full of passion. We finish what we'd started and for a little while let the beach shut out all the ugliness.

Later, waking, Ezri and I tangled in covers and clothes and each other, I stare at the grim room we call home. The time is so close. A few more days and Sloan and I will be ready to tell the Vorta-or perhaps the Founder himself-that I can cure them. I know what the others will think, and Ezri must be just as distant.

Did Lemas lie awake at night wondering, if he did get home, if he would have to pay for his deception with the rest of his dreams? If he'd . . . would he and Liz have tried to find a life together knowing what they'd done?

We're lying in each other's arms, and I'm rubbing her back. There is still a bit of noise. She turns to me, drawing me towards her. "Whatever happens, I understand." It is almost inaudible.

Maybe if she can hold me at night when nobody else can see, I can stand it.

o0o

Sloan stands near the door, betraying his anxious mood, as I run a final test. He's been helping more and more and we've worked out a kind of visual shorthand between us. I watch the numbers as they are recorded on the padd.

It is finished. Short of an actual test on a sample of changeling goo, I have done all I can. That is their job. I did not ask to see Odo again, knowing we would be refused. I assume their own doctors will do the final tests.

Inside is a great emptiness. I signal Sloan that it's done. But it's late. Neither of us are ready for the big day yet. Tomorrow will be soon enough.

He watches over my shoulder as I check the padd. "I'd do one more confirmation," he says.

"We haven't tested these for long term exposure," I say, thinking out loud. "We'll check it in the morning."

We set up the test, taking our time. This may be the last day we ever come here. I keep wondering if I like that idea or not. Sloan has never given me another hint of what this formula does, but test 31 was different from the others. Occasionally, when I have time to myself, I apply the differences in my head. I doubt I'll ever get a real explanation. It's very likely I'll never see Luther Sloan again.

What happens next? Do I go back to the infirmary? Is there a reward for being good? How will I manage when everybody thinks I betrayed them?

Sloan is looking at the padd. I suspect he is as uncertain as I am. I keep wondering why he's here. Was he sent? Did he get caught while planting his files?

Is 31 still in existence at all?

Sloan kidnaped and used me. I despised him. I suppose planting the fragment of file amounts to more of the same. But they'd have discovered that I cured Odo eventually, and there would have been fewer options without his help.

He said, a long time ago, that I was a part of 31 already, that I'd always be. Here, especially now, that doesn't seem so bad. We tried to win with ships and soldiers. It didn't work, isn't working. Nobody is going to liberate us but ourselves now.

Tomorrow it will begin.

o0o

I walk into our compound as if it was an ordinary day. They've cut back on everyone's shifts, and even Miles spends less time away now.

We do longer readings now. The aliens have shown themselves, and their version of paradise has come. Nobody wants for anything. There is no disease or starvation, and each person works at the job of their choosing. Crime has vanished, and the one world that replaces the many nations is free of the stresses of nationalism.

But there are terrible costs. The aliens and their technology are so overwhelming that many things human are lost. The creative arts did not end, but lack the spark that made works brilliant as the absence of conflict and strife removed the emotional heart. The alien's machine, which can show the past as it had happened, compromises religion as hallowed stories are proven to be myth. But worse of all, the spark of adventure is extinguished. A strict ban on space flight limits the human race to earth. And Earth was too safe for adventures to be real enough. For those who could not settle for paradise, there was no place to go.

It sounds familiar. I remember the looks the Starfleet people got when we arrived on Bajor, and the stunning realization for some of us that there was much more than paradise. In the Overlord's utopia, I hope I would have yearned for more. But I knew too many who would have been as satisfied as the majority of those who dwell happily in their "long, cloudless summer afternoon of peace and prosperity."

I cling to that image, now lost forever, of the Earth I knew. No matter what becomes of the war, that is gone. Even if we survive paradise is lost.

For one man, Jan, the long summer is not enough. He must know. Concealed in the belly of a model whale, locked in an artificial hibernation fully asleep, he is the first man to feel the pull of the stardrive.

I cling to this vision, this affirmation of our need to know more than the gods allow, and the courage to defy them in the search for answers. I'd much rather be Jan, facing the unknown, than myself. If only our own defiance, our own affirmation of our will, could be so open. But Jan will go home on the next ship. We must hide our secret and live with the wrath of our own. For if there is any suspicion that it isn't real, we-and all the rest-will be dead long before any of the Founders.

Ezri is already back, quietly talking with Kira. They are looking at me, watching as I hold a sleepy Tessie. I nod but leave them alone. Keiko joins them with the children in tow, Molly giving her Aunt Neres a hug.

In between, talking with Molly, Kira keeps glancing at me. I wonder if she has figured it out. Is it obvious that this day is hardly normal for me? Am I giving it away without intending to?

I just want to go to Ezri, hold her, spend as much time as I can before . . . Or maybe it would be better for it to be a normal day.

Odd how we redefine "normal".

Tomorrow will change that. If anything goes wrong all of these people will be dead by the end of the day. A thousand doubts enter my mind. We never tested the formula. What if it doesn't cure them? Will the Jem'Hadar mow these people down with rifles, or use their bayonets? Will they make Sloan and I watch? Will they kill us after the rest are dead?

For a moment I see the Alamo, bodies draped in unnatural death. I have seen too much of that. It is too easy to visualize these people strewn around where they fell, the blood . . .

And the bodies of Fannon's men executed at Goliad, the second Texas massacre twenty days after the fall of the Alamo. Fannon watched as they died. He was executed last. What thoughts ran through his head as the Mexican rifles killed everyone around him? Was he, in the end, grateful for death?

I shut out the image. The plan will work. It will work because it must. There can be no other option.

Ezri looks up, watching for a second. She walks over to me, studying me carefully. She must have seen the flash of horror but makes no comment about it. "You're back early," she says.

She's relaxed. I guess it was a good day for her, whatever *good* means anymore. I'm most grateful she is Ezri. I need Ezri now.

"Looks like everybody else is too," I say. I have an idea. If anything happens, I'll never hear the end of the book. At least I want to know how that ends.

She is very serious. "It's almost over," she says.

Miles has heard rumors that some of the resident groups will be moved soon. I doubt it will be us, not quite yet. Miles still has work to do. But I will no longer offer any special protection. Nor will Sloan. What is he thinking now, hearing the rumors himself?

"I know." I mean more than the war. I'm sure she understands. I hope she understands.

It won't be too long before they don't need me, or Miles, or the rest of us. What then? Is that what she means?

We play with Tessie and visit her grandmother while I wait for Miles. Elaine and Cassie are doing better now, the medicine smuggled in by Marta on her last appearance helping them breath a little easier. It won't undue the damage, but when Kira brings them their food, she adds a few drops to both women's broth. Tessie is very talkative, and I notice both of the sick women smile a little at the little girl's words.

They've been excused from work. I didn't do it. I suspect Marta had one other condition she insisted on before her marriage. It won't save their lives either, just make the last days a little more comfortable.

However many that is. Cassie Realand is too sick to notice too much, but Elaine is waiting to die.

Miles is staring out the gate, alone, soon after he is returned.

"You sound about as busy as I am," he says, his eyes grim. "If it wasn't for the problems with communications we'd have hardly anything to do."

"What sort of problems?" I have to ask.

He looks at me oddly. I suppose I usually didn't ask about that sort of thing. "Little things. The normal sorts of failures you get in a new system. It's complicated, and you get that." He shrugs, but he's nervous. "Realand's been dragged all over the place the last few days since the women were exempted. Of course he doesn't argue anymore."

I'd like to think that Miles regrets that a little. But then I hardly know him anymore, hardly know myself. If we live through this, there will be a lot of penance to pay.

"We've got plenty of time for reading tonight. Let's see if we can finish the book." I don't look at him, don't want him to see how desperate I am.

"Sounds good to me," he says, "I'll get it."

I notice Ezri and Tessie are back, Elaine with them this time. She is shaky and pale, but feeling much better.

"We're reading early, I think. Maybe we can read the rest of it," I say. Ezri gives me a worried look, and Elaine nods.

"I would like to know," she says, and I wonder how soon she too will be gone.

More and more people are assembling, and Miles has moved a chair in place for the reader. I assume this means we read.

Better a featureless paradise than our own lives. I just want to know how it fares, hoping it lasts a little longer than ours.

Paradise has come, but some wish to preserve what they can of human society. An island colony, named New Athens, has been established. There the Overlords technology is left out and old crafts are revived and the arts pursued.

George Greggson and his wife Jean have moved there with their two children, a seven year old boy named Jeffery and an infant girl mostly called the Poppett. Unknown to them, the Overlords watch, and wait.

A few people glance at the Jackson's, especially their son. I wonder if he was anything like the bright, curious boy in the book before capture and whatever nightmare turned him into the timebomb he is now.

The Jeffery of the book loves the islands. He's a good child, intelligent with much curiosity. He almost dies one day when a tidal wave sweeps the beach. But a voice told him to run, and a rock was vaporized to enable him to climb away from the water. This boy has a timebomb inside him too, and it will go off as surely as ours will.

George is grateful that his son is alive, but a dread grows inside him. Years before, during the oddity of a party game with a ouija board, Jean had suddenly fainted after the board answered her question-where the Overlords sun was to be found. The Overlord Rashaverak had been present and watched with great interest as Jean had fallen into a sudden trance before the answer had come. He says nothing to his son, or Jean, but the fear is there that somehow Jeffery matters in ways he cannot understand.

Then, just weeks later, the dreams begin. Jeffrey goes to other places in his sleep, places which could be dreams but are too vivid to be ordinary. The Overlords, watching, can guess which places he has gone. His parents, silently worrying, listen as he tells them of the worlds he sees in sleep.

Do Cheryl and Carl wake at night, and go to watch the child sleep hoping he will remind them of the child they lost in the dark, desperate room months ago?

Eventually, his worry too much to bear, George approaches the Overlords and it suddenly makes a terrible kind of sense. The children, Jeffery only the first, have transcended the limits of their species. The dreams are only the beginning. The Overlords know little more than the parents, except that their race will never reach that state of being. They are servants to a higher kind, and can never be more.

George feels a pity for them, and several people glance towards the gate. The Jem'Hadar are no more free than we, trapped in their programmed fate. It does not stop George from a trace of bitterness, nor us from hating the ones who hurt us. But we can transcend this place, like the children. They will never be anything else.

"'I've only one more question,' he said. 'What shall we do about our children?'"

"'Enjoy them while you may,' answered Rashaverak gently. 'They will not be yours for long.'"

"It was advise that might have been given to any parent in any age: but now it contained a threat and a terror it had never held before."

Tessie is asleep, collapsed in Ezri's arms, and I put my arm around both of them. Miles is holding Molly close, his eyes closed. Keiko pulls Yoshi closer, rocking him in his blanket. The wonder that would take the children of Earth could not be stopped, the parents left behind in their own loneliness. But Miles and I are not alone. Others hold their children as if tomorrow the ones who control our fate might send us away, where? We are lucky here, in our little sheltered isle. When will that luck run out? When will we matter no more than the parents of Earth when their children have gone?

The dinner cart creaks its way inside the gate as we silently rearrange ourselves for the evening meal. There is little conversation. People keep their children close. The cart leaves and we resume the reading.

There is a pall over the room. Jennifer Anne slept, the toy she kept suspended in the air no longer moving, taking care of her own needs. She had changed so fast, now long past the spark of being that had been the Poppet. Jeffrey was still himself, now and then. His parents cherished those times. But they could see the child they loved fading, his uniqueness vanishing before their eyes. They walked, and tried to have as much time as they could with the boy before he was gone. An undefinable sadness and confusion took the dog, Fey, who knew the boy was no longer her master, and wondered where he had gone.

We are lucky. Our small children are spared the outside world. They are hungry and dirty, but they still have us. The older ones, like the Deneban's two children, are big enough to work and their youth is already gone. We, too, are the last generation. The children will never know the world we had-only the grimy, grey place known as survival. We mourn for them. But we watch, even those with none, terrified that they will have nothing at all, that they will be taken away. We don't know what happened to the children of those shipped to Cardassia. Perhaps they died there, like their parents likely did. Or at least everything they were died. We cling to this place like an anchor, despite the locked gate. In here we claim ownership of ourselves, with books, with love and with family. We know they can take it away, just as the people of the colony of New Athens see the children who are no longer human leave them for a last time. If they . . . how will we cope? Will we choose to leave in fire as do the remnants of the new colony of Athens? Would our overlords allow us that choice?

For Jan, going home is an emotional experience. In his mind he has been gone for six months. For the Earth, it has been 80 years. But he has seen the planet of the Overlords and understands why humans had to be kept from the cosmos, just how much they had to learn before it would be possible for them to join the worlds that lived outside their knowing. He could have stayed with the Overlords the rest of his life but wanted to go home, to the place he was born. He had seen the utterly alien vistas of a world populated by creatures that fly, and had many questions still unanswered. But *home* drew him back, and a kinship with his own kind.

I left Earth to come to this place, to find my frontier. But I always knew I could go back, that family and friends would be waiting. But for how long? The war is so near done, and we with it. I understand Jan too much. I want to be able to go home again.

But Jan found nothing but darkness and oblivion. The children, or whatever they had become, were merging into something with a single identity that was unconcerned with the world around them. In time, they had removed all life from their place, for a reason known only to themselves. No longer children, no longer even human, Jan mourned for his lost world.

For he was alone. The rest of humanity had destroyed themselves in games of risk and wars of destruction. With no future, they had faded from existence and left behind a dark, ruined place. The Overlords watched, never knowing when the children would test their powers and alter the orbit of the planet or the moon, and it would end for any who might have survived.

Jan is the last man on Earth. For a while, he is granted a childhood dream of being the best pianist in the world. For awhile, the children left the rock and living things remaining alive alone.

When we lose, who will be the last of our kind to die on the cool green hills of Earth?

But the changelings do not ignore that left behind forever. As they matured into creatures of energy, parts of a single whole, even the planet is gone. The Overlords watched, trapped in their own endless existence, as another race matured into what they had always been fated to be. A little bit of mankind still stirred in the consciousness of the cosmos, with nothing left behind.

Stunned, quiet, overwhelmed by the mixture of tragedy and wonder, we hold onto our own. Perhaps fate had taken them; perhaps something more wonderful would come from the end of humanity. But something is always left behind, the hopes and dreams of those who don't fit into the new way of things. Are we like them, not merely the last generation, but the ones who must wait for the end. Would it have been better for it to be over quickly, or will we be sentenced to a long decline like those left to slowly die of the quickening?

Tomorrow, our revenge will be sowed. Tomorrow we may have a small light at the end of our darkness. But I realize it is only a hope. The Founders will not survive but neither will we, not as the people we were. We will make something new, but no revenge, no books, no dreams will reclaim what is lost.

Still caught in the story's spell we dawdle, each lost in our own personal world. But it is late. The lights are blinking. We have to go.

Miles stands and turns to address us. "I have a couple of possible trades. I was wondering what kind of book you'd like."

We, another last, lost generation pull our minds back to our own reality. What happens when they are done with us is a mystery. We can't permit ourselves to think it, but everyone wonders if there will be time to finish the next book. But we need our readings. It is the only time that belongs to us. The magic of the stories makes the day tolerable. We look at each other, hurried by the blinking of the lights, and pretend we have all the time in the world.

We must decide quickly. We still haven't moved towards our quarters, and the lights are blinking again. Miles asks, "Do we want more adventures? I can get a couple of them. Or a comedy. I've heard there's one floating around."

The Jem'Hadar have arrived and are waiting for us to go. We start edging back towards our rooms. "Let's vote," someone says, "Everybody for the adventure," he suggests. The results are halfhearted. "The comedy?" Hands go up, and we start to disappear into our little dungeons as the Jem'Hadar begin to open the gate.

We have had enough drama and war and adventure. We'd like to laugh this time. "I have just the thing," says Miles, almost smiling. "It's supposed to be short, too."

We're already half-way into our respective rooms, but there is a cheer. The Jem'Hadar have left the gate but are still waiting a little distance away. I'm sure everyone is looking forward to tomorrow and the new book. They want to laugh. I wish I could share their mood. They could as easily be dead by this time tomorrow.

As soon as we get inside Ezri confronts me. "You're done," she says, but very quietly, watching me closely.

I nod. She looks at me, both worried and relieved. I offer my arms and we hold each other and the little girl who is to be ours.

Much later with the lights dimmed and officially in night we are still in each other's arms, unable to sleep. Quietly, she whispers, "The rumor is that the Klingon home world was wiped out just like Cardassia." She rolls over, and the bed makes its usual noise. "They'll do the same to Earth. Who knows how many places they've done it to. Do whatever you have to."

I hold her for the rest of the night. She kisses me before they leave for work, a desperate sort of kiss as if might be the last on this day that will change everything. I watch as they disappear, hoping that it isn't the last time I ever see her.

o0o

My escort is late. All the rest are gone but Cindy and I and the little children. The two sick women are sleeping, Cassie growing worse despite the medicine. Elaine is better, but work would change that and I'm sure that isn't part of Marta's bargain. But this late call is a portend of bad news, and I'm sure the tests have been analyzed. Either the Founder will live or we will die. Cindy is busy, so near term, and giving all her attention to the children. But I think she can tell I'm nervous. I like listening to them play. She has permission to read the Oz book to them during the day, and they are playing little games with the characters. I smile a little. I push away the horrible feeling that their lives depend on how well things go this day. I am painfully aware that the children are the most expendable. I keep thinking of how the people of Earth gave up when their future and their children were both stolen from them.

Eventually, after a long wait, my guard arrives and I'm almost glad to follow him out the gate. The waiting has only made it harder. In a few hours it will be over and I will have shown myself an apparent traitor. Only Ezri will know, and she can only accept me in private. As we progress down the corridor, I'm certain it's time when we turn the wrong way and come to the ward room again. This time Weyoun is waiting. I don't want to look at him, but after all the drab greys of our quarters and even the lab, his violet eyes and brightly colored suit draw my attention.

The distraction is short-lived. Soon after, Sloan is brought in as well. I'm reminded of why we are here. We say nothing, but are still worried.

"You are done," says Weyoun. "We confirmed your last test. Once the vaccine is prepared, you will cure the Founder." He stands, walking around the table and stopping in front of Sloan. "I think *you* will prepare the vaccine. After it's tested the doctor will treat the Founder." He moves back, studying us. "If it fails, both of your groups will be executed."

Most direct . . . Sloan is looking down, his eyes half-focused. I wonder if he is as worried about the people he is risking as I am. I can't push away last nights vision of them lying dead all around me.

Weyoun sits down again. "Are you certain this treatment is ready to use?"

He looks at me. I take a deep breath, wishing I could be absolutely sure. But he knows we don't have the equipment to do that. "Yes," I say quietly. I might have qualified my statement, but now, the moment of truth so near, I don't want them to look too closely.

"Do you agree?" he asks Sloan.

Sloan does not look up, but simply says, "It's ready, sir."

I still wonder what they did to him.

Weyoun motions to the guard, and I'm led out of the room. I follow the guard towards what was once Odo's office. It's different now, somehow colder and more dangerous to be put inside one of the cells.

I'm pushed into the first cell, and the force field is restored. It's been altered from the transparent shield it had been to another sheaf of dingy grey, as if there is a dirty fog surrounding me. The cell is half-dark, but I know they are watching. I sit on the bench and wait as still and as calmly as I can manage. I will not give them a show.

Some time later the fog suddenly vanishes and I'm assaulted with bright light. Sloan is pushed inside and the fog is restored. My moment is growing closer and I'm trying to hide how nervous I am, how much I want to see Ezri again, how much I dread the way the others will reject me. I glance at Sloan, certain there is someone he's worried about. He is so quiet, so resigned. I watch as his hands start to tremble as the light replaces the fog and more guards come.

We don't speak. We don't even look at each other or use our hand signals. I wonder how his people will accept him or if they know what he's done.

I remember standing before the Founder, trying to be as cold as Sloan while I told my lies. But he isn't a stranger who comes in the night anymore. I wonder if I know more of the real Sloan than most had been allowed to see.

Once, I would have doubted him had I seen him as nervous and broken as he is now. But then, perhaps, I notice it just to take my mind off the intense worry that this will somehow still fail and everyone will die.

The guards approach and I'm ordered to come. I follow the Jem'Hadar out of the cell and don't look at Sloan. I'm lead to my lab, where the male changeling is waiting, sitting on one of the remaining treatment beds. I take the hypo prepared for me by Sloan, waiting on a tray by the main testing area where he had shown me sample 31 before.

The man has used me before, playing perfectly my reaction to the supposed plot to kill the Romulan. Would he do it again, even if he would die as well?

The guards are watching, ready to shoot. I guess, unlike Fannon, we won't see our people die if they pay the price. I show them nothing but a doctor at work. I stand tall. I do not hesitate as I approach the changeling.

I remember treating Odo, how painful a process it was. I do not want them to shot me out of hand. I must warn them so they will expect the Founder's short-lived distress.

"This will be painful. It will force a return to your natural state before it is done. Do not be alarmed. Now, please lie down." I am the consummate professional, confident of my authority and knowledge.

He looks at me with curiosity, but lies down on the biobed. I study the tricorder near the bed, forcing back all the fears that this act will bring nothing but our own death. I look utterly professional. I wonder what became of the female changeling who'd been here before.

I press the hypo against his flaking "skin" and give him the treatment.

I step back, watching, as the creature turns to amber goo and reforms, except now there is no damage to his form. Not that he can see.

The tension in the room drops a measure. The Jem'Hadar move their hands away from their rifles. The Founder stands, studying me for a moment. He turns away, addressing the Jem'Hadar. "Return him to his quarters for now. If all goes well he will be rewarded later."

I follow them down the corridors, still stunned that it is over. We arrive at the gate. The only adult in view is Cindy, and she watches as I walk inside. It will be hours before anyone else returns. I wonder what to do with myself before then.

I expect her to say something but she is silent, preoccupied, rubbing her belly. The children are playing with their meager toys. She's been reading the Oz book to them, the marker visibly moved ahead, and they are still acting it out. I wish we had some children's books, but whoever is supplying the books didn't find any.

"Do you need any help with the children," I ask.

"No, we'll be fine," she answers. But I see the way she's watching me, and I wonder if she has guessed.

She's still rubbing her belly, her gaze too soft for this place. "Are you all right? Any signs of labor?"

She looks up, tearing herself away from whatever kind of pretend she's playing in her daydream.

"Nothing yet," she says, and smiles. The smile is so out of place. But then she knows very little about the rest of this nightmare.

Everything looks peaceful, and I need to have some time to think. I make my way to our quarters to try to make it real. Tessie is playing, looks up at me and goes back to her game.

It has begun.

In the solitude, my mind wanders. I wonder if the male changeling volunteered to be the first to receive the vaccine. I assume their own doctors are checking him for any signs of misadventure. They won't find the second disease. I never used a padd, but have applied the formula from Sloan's test batch 31 to the results. I know what it does now, how careful someone has been to make it disappear until it is too late. It is too close to the basic chemistry of the changeling itself. When they take another form as he has already done all traces of it disappear.

Was this 31's answer to my cure? Was it part of some plot to offer to cure the changelings in exchange for a surrender that never happened?

Odo won't require any treatment. He is already cured. The others will either die of the original disease, untreated, or the one the treatment has introduced. It cannot be spread by linking with other changelings. They can shapeshift as much as they want, or not at all. It will have no effect. After some six months have passed, they will sicken rapidly and then die.

There is no cure. It would take months of study to create one. Even if I'm forced to try, they would all be dead long before one was found. Should they insist, will I pretend to try to save my life, or Ezri and Tessie's, knowing it is a pointless act of treason?

If I refuse, the Jem'Hadar may kill me. They may kill a lot of us before they die themselves. But they will destroy the Vorta first. Still, no matter how many die in their grief, they cannot restore their gods.

The Founders will not destroy anyone else. That is all that matters.

End, Part 2, Chapter 9 of Surrender


	10. Surrender Part 2 Chapter 10

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 2 – Necessary Compromises

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consentual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forwarned.

Book Bibliography:

Books which might exist some day:

No Sancuary – A Personal Memoir by Dannielle Watson

The following book is described/quoted in this story:

The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Chapter 10

I have been excluded from the others already.

The Founder appears to be cured. No one has come and taken us and the others are alive. I spent my day with family. Tessie needed a nap and I liked being with her, sharing with her our empty room, and later playing with her outside when she woke.

I was there when the first of the crews returned, every shift ending early today. It is the sort of surprise that always comes with a heavy price. They knew what I was doing, and now they suspect that I have betrayed them. Is the short day Weyoun's idea of a celebration of his gods survival, or am I being given some kind of esoteric punishment for having taken so long.

As people return, they give me curious glances when they find I am back early. I wonder if Lemas would have been greeted with the same stares if he'd made it home.

The general mood isn't improved when Miles appears at the gate with an armful of books. He glances at me, sitting them down on the table. There are four new ones along with the one offered for trade.

"They heard they'll be moved pretty soon. They want to make sure the books don't get confiscated." He doesn't look at me, rubbing the patchy beard, scratching something on his chin. He adds with resignation, "The bastards still have a use for us for a little while."

"A little while," I say.

"Look, er, I heard," he says awkwardly. "You could say I kind of understand," he mumbles.

I don't look at him. Miles and his crew have put the station back together for them, and each one understands that the cost of refusal is very dear. But I suspect that even Miles doesn't approve. There are degrees of cooperation.

"Well, you're all still alive," I say, leaving it at that. Miles shrugs a little. I pick through the stack of books and immediately notice one that draws my attention.

It's called "No Sanctuary" and I recognize the sort of pest spot it's about. There is a picture of a little girl and a sub-title, "A Personal Memoir". I pull it from the stack and push the rest back towards Miles, who chooses not to notice.

With the arrival of Miles crews, they've all heard the same rumor he has of the Founder's good fortune and now they are ignoring me completely. While we wait for dinner, I concentrate on the book and ignore them too. Ezri had taken Tessie to visit her grandmother and I am alone. Miles sits near but not even he is speaking to me.

I ignore everyone. The book is too full of memories, and it helps shut out the looks and silence. The girl's name is Danielle Watson, and when her family was put inside the Sanctuary District she was ten. The little boy in the picture with her is her brother. According to the dedication, he was six, a year later, when he died.

I open the book to the first chapter, "Beginnings" and am with Dannie, as her parents called her, as she left her home for the last time.

"Mother was crying. We'd already sold everything of any value, or anything too big to carry. We had our things in a few boxes, and my father and a cousin carried them out to be stored with his family while we would stay with them. I held Casey. He had a bag of toys, and his clothes, and I had taken my favorite dolls and books. He didn't understand, but he was scared. My father returned, and my mother held him as they took a last look at the things we were leaving behind. They were left to satisfy the remaining rent. My father did not want to leave with debts. Then we were called out of our house, the only place I'd ever lived, for the last time."

For most of these people it would be too much a reminder of our own loss, but for me it is more. I remember standing next to the people of Dannie's time as they told their stories to the world, how they'd committed the crime of poverty or lost a job. Then they were shunted out of public view with promises nobody could keep until the public conveniently forgot about them. I'd sat with the hostages, ready to defend them with my life, while the police stormed the buildings with deadly laser scopes against whatever the residents could find. I remember walking out of the building with an injured Sisko, staring at a street full of bodies, the dead and the dying, all ordinary people who had just had enough and wanted to be recognized.

The Bell riots were the beginning, and the Sanctuary districts were removed. But not all at once. I go back to reading, hoping Dannie and her family all survived the day.

"We walked with my cousin and uncle, finally taking the public car. It felt so empty to have only these few things left, and all the people staring at us. All I wanted was to disappear, be invisible, and not the curiosity we were. It didn't sink in that we had no home until it got dark, and we crowded into the small living room together, the only extra room they had. I missed my bed, all of my dolls, my privacy so much I could not sleep. Even then, I knew we were lucky. Others had to fend for themselves on the street, hiding from the police. At least we were safe from that, though it would take a long time to forget what it meant to have a home."

Overwhelmed by memories, I close the book. But then I open it again, skipping ahead a few pages. I understand what it is like to be torn from home. After living the Bell riots, I'd studied the time. Once, the homeless were tolerated, if begrudgingly. But by then to be poor, to have no home, was a crime. Sisko and I had been arrested for the simple reason we could not prove we belonged. If Dannie and her family had been left to the streets, the police would have detained them once their hiding place was found and thrown them into the same hell as Sisko and I. But as I peak ahead, things grow more desperate. Dannie's cousin has a new brother, and there isn't much room or money. Her father feels ashamed that his family is taking the little extra money and space. He offers to leave but his brother refuses. But Dannie knows he's been looking for another place to go. She knows her family would not leave them to the streets.

Then the landlord orders her family out or her uncle and cousins will lose their own home. Dannie and her family disappear into one of the dank, rotting buildings that had been abandoned and begin living off what they own.

"Each day, something more disappeared from the boxes and there was something to eat. Mother stopped crying and started to just look sad. Father disappeared for hours at a time, never telling us where he was going. Sometimes he'd return with money, sometimes food, and sometimes nothing. We got used to being hungry, though Casey cried himself to sleep most nights. Then, perhaps a month after having become one of the invisibles, we ran out of things to sell. We hid in the shadows, aware of police appearing now and then, looking about. We stayed where we were, doing everything short of stealing food, but knowing that soon enough the police would come."

Miles has chosen his own book, a comedy about a man named Arthur Dent. His planet-well, our planet-was destroyed in the building of an interstellar bypass. He is set adrift across space with an oddity name Ford Prefect. The book is very thick, but it appears to be three novels bound into one book. I hope they have enough time to read them, even if their shunning of me has already created a distance between us.

Their reading begins before dinner but I don't join them. I listen as they are laughing, the food cart approaching, and they only reluctantly break up to eat. I've only half-followed the story as the unassuming Arthur Dent defends his house against a bulldozer, losing his battle just about the time the whole Earth becomes vaporized to make way for the bypass. He finds himself plucked from the Earth in the nick of time, his rescuer none other than the rather odd Ford Prefect, who really believed he had chosen a quite ordinary name. Sitting on the Vogon spaceship, he discovers that Ford is really a stringer for the legendary Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, a compendium of all things a hitchhiker must know.

But even as Arthur's reluctant adventure begins and we meet the soon to be former President of the Imperial Galactic Government, Zaphod Beeblebrox, I am more drawn to Dannie and her family. In a sudden attack, the police wake them in the middle of the night by banging on the doors. The family is arrested, marched to the locked gate of the urban ghetto, and taken to the crowded processing center.

Arthur Dent and his odd friends are a comic relief, even if they destroy Earth once again, but I remember the processing center with its rows and rows of benches and the mood of desolation it held. It is the same place, the same District, that Sisko and I were taken to. It was full of tired, desperate, scared people who had no where else to go. After many hours of sitting and waiting we got a ration card. Then we are sent out on the streets, with a warning to safeguard it from the ghosts and dims, and to avoid the police. I close the book, even before Dannie tells about it, the smell and the ragged people all too real.

After wandering half the night, finding nothing but hostility and suspicion, Sisko and I had settled for the street as we gave into exhaustion. In the morning, the captain brought breakfast, as I tried to ease the aches from sleeping on the hard, cold cement. He had to stand in line for hours to get it, and we ended up eating with our fingers. As the cart squeaks its way inside of own little prison, I hold onto the book. At least we don't wait for hours to eat, once the food arrives. We have a spoon to eat with. We have a reason to be kept like animals.

My group-if they will allow me to be one of them-break up and move to the line ready to silently eat their tasteless mush. Nobody even looks at me. I sit by myself with Dannie's book for company. But I can see their eyes. They are alive, full of anticipation, for there is time to read more of the book. Even I want to know what becomes of Arthur Dent.

I look up at the gate, locked and patrolled, and wonder what comes next for us. The people crowded into the Sanctuary Districts were of no particular use. At least for now we serve a purpose. We get cots and blankets, and even the illusion of privacy. But we started with hard floors for beds, and we eat whatever they give us because we know they can stop if we don't cooperate. When this use is done will they find another? It is unthinkable that they should not. Which is . . . was the luckiest? Was the desperate, dangerous life in the urban pits better or worse than what we have now, that we will have when our use here is ended?

I'd asked Sisko if people had really changed. He never really answered my question. He just said we'd have to make sure we never had to find out. But I guess we failed. We are here in our own well guarded sanctuary, proof that, push come to shove, we'd survive however we had to.

I am proof of that, at least to these people. I have no doubt that I am no longer welcome. If they could, they would make me leave. But when you're in a cage you just make the untouchables invisible. I sit waiting for my dinner, alone in a room full of people.

Then dinner arrives and it gets worse. There is an extra bowl full of some kind of fruit. The others know now, even if they didn't before. With each bowl of mush we get a whole piece of the fruit. Then the guards announce that the fruit is in celebration of the Founder being restored to health.

For a moment they look at me, astonished and shocked as the truth sinks in. Nobody had spoken to me before, and now they move away, as far as they can from the traitor among them.

But they ate the fruit, an unknown variety, but very sweet and delicious. At least most of them did . . . Realand has been dragged around daily keeping the comm system running, and he has apparently decided arguing is pointless since his visit to the little cage. But he reached the cart, looking at the fruit, and took his bowl of mush. The server tried to hand him a piece, and he very delicately, as if to touch it at all would contaminate him, brushed it aside.

I still don't like him, but I'm glad someone refused to celebrate. I admit I ate it with relish. It was sweet. It was delicious. It was food.

Trying not to look at any of them, I finish my meal quickly and leave. I retreat to our quarters, the only place I can go, taking Dannie's book with me. I will not be allowed to know what becomes of the stumbling Mr. Dent. If they could, I'm sure I would not be allowed to live. But that isn't in their power. I belong to the Vorta now. I am his plaything. He chooses to reward me with this torture.

Ezri sits listening to the story. Tessie is with her, and for the first time I can't wait for the lights to blink. She will come here because she has no other place to go, and we can hold each other for the night.

The lights flicker and she returns, Tessie limp and asleep. But she's sticky, the fruit juice all over her. It is like a perfume in the air that reminds me of nothing but bad memories. But we know better than to waste food. Dannie would understand. She would savor every bite.

All those years of progress, and growth and lies, and we're no different than the people who walled up their cities and forgot that you can't hide forever.

o0o

I am sitting alone, waiting. Everyone else sits or stands staring at the gate. Breakfast is late. Work may start late or there simply may not be time to eat it.

At least they aren't paying a lot of attention to me.

People begin to move near the gate at the sound of movement, but then back away sharply. It isn't the cart. It's the Jem'Hadar.

The Deneban's look dejected, more resigned than afraid. Catherine pulls Bayla closer, and Daniel looks away, lost, towards our quarters for a moment.

Jackson moves his family closer. Ezri starts towards me, Tessie in her arms. We'd heard the rumors about groups being deported. I know they might have waited for Sloan and I to finish. Is this the end of our luck? Are we leaving?

They force open the gate, push their way inside. All of them are armed. Breakfast is forgotten, even I am forgotten. All anyone can see are the guards and their guns.

The first is among them, a sign this is very important. He steps ahead of the rest. "The following will come. Kevin Realand. Cassie Realand. Elaine Silman. Now."

There's no compromise, nothing routine in his tone. We all watch as Realand steps forward, no sign of the arrogance they'd already punished out of him. He's afraid. Kira has slipped back to the rooms, and is helping Cassie and Elaine. Cassie is coughing constantly, looking pale and listless, too sick to last long.

But Elaine, despite her sickness, is calm, resigned, almost proud. She's afraid, but I'm sure, to her, whatever she did was worth it ending this way.

With Elaine helping to steady Cassie, they are encased in Jem'Hadar and marched away.

Ezri has moved nearer, Tessie looking towards the gate. I am certain that Tessie will never see her grandmother again.

There is not a sound, not even when moments later the cart finally makes it appearance. People line up to eat-no fruit this time-and silently sit with their families. When they finish, they line up for work. Ezri hands me Tessie, breaking the rules. "Stay with her," she whispers.

I have not been told what to do and the guards clearly wave me away when I approach the crews. I retreat with Tessie to the end of the tables.

It's odd, the feeling of relief mixed with grief. Realand and the others won't come back. By evening they'll likely be dead. But as I watch the faces staring at the gate, I see relief. We didn't get deported today. They aren't done with us. They file out, having lasted the morning.

They can read more tonight, maybe even a few more nights if all of us are still lucky.

It's curious, the favor the Jem'Hadar did for me. I'm still invisible to the rest of them, but just for a while I was a part of the whole. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was something.

The last of them go, even Miles crews. Cindy retreats with the children, minus Tessie. She gives me a glance but otherwise ignores me.

Tessie won't let go of me. She's too young to really understand, but somehow she must know how bad it is. She keeps looking at the gate, repeating "na-na" over and over again.

After a while I can't stand it and take her back to our room. She sits on her bed with her toys, somehow delighted with all the attention. But she still asks about Na-na. How do we tell her her grandmother will be dead by nightfall? If she's lucky. I keep thinking of Sloan, the way he had been destroyed by something terrible. Elaine and the rest may well not die so easily.

Tessie falls asleep with her toys, holding the little makeshift doll someone had made. I stare at the walls, wondering if it is worse to be alone with a room full of people or be left behind for hours with nothing to do. Being a prisoner when you have something to think about, something to do with your hands, is better than being relegated to this quiet non-existence Weyoun has sentenced me.

Tessie is sleeping peacefully. It won't sink in that something is wrong until we don't take her to see her Na-na tonight. I won't disturb her now.

But, sitting on our table is the Dent book, the story of Arthur Dent, hapless human, and his unplanned journey through the galaxy. I didn't notice it until morning, but Miles must have given it to Ezri to leave for me. I pick it up, noting the place is marked very carefully. I feel its weight in my hand, solid and real. They read for a long time last night, until the lights blinked and forced them to stop. I wish I could have been there. The light is bright enough during "day" to read, but somehow this silent gift of my friend only reminds me that I have to read it alone, that I have been separated from the rest.

I can't read Miles anymore. The guilt inside him is too great and he deals with it by ignoring all the demons. But his children are alive. Looking at Tessie, I can understand. She isn't really mine, but I would protect her. I believe he understands, at least a little, that I would not sell my soul without a good reason. I doubt he has any hint of the reason.

For a little while, I just hold the book and close my eyes. I remember our games of darts after my genetic status was revealed. He stood by me. Even then, he didn't understand. But I was his friend. I have to believe I am still a friend. I forgive him the subterfuge and silence. He has to live here to. Ezri must come to this room with me at night, but were he to defend me he would be shut out as well.

I can't read, not for a while. There is no pleasure in stories you can't share. But Tessie sleeps, and the time crawls by. I don't want to read the Dent book, not yet. It is their book and I have been shut out of their world.

But I was, at least for a few, very vital days, a part of Dannie's. Taking her book, her little piece of immortality, in hand I open randomly to a page.

She's in Sanctuary District A, watching her little brother play. "The street was filthy, strewn with the trash that had nowhere to go. Later, when it was cold, it would be burned but now it lay in heaps on what had been the sidewalk. The children played a game of tag, some version they had created for themselves, and their game spread the edges thin. Father was drunk, as he often was now, and Mother had retreated to her private place where she hid inside herself."

Outside, Cindy is watching our children play. I can hear them, voices quieter than normal, but still the high pitched fun of play. Cindy has been very quiet of late, the birth of her own child so near. She hears only what people can bring themselves to say, sees only what we can describe. What is her world, shielded by the gate, but knowing a little too much of what happens beyond it?

I didn't want children here. Ezri isn't likely to ever have one of her own, not lost in this life. But things are *different* when I think of Tessie, how she smiles, how she has come to cling to Ezri as if she knows in her child mind that the rest are gone.

I wonder if Elaine is dead now. Or does she wish she was? But I did make a promise, both of us. We'll care for the child she's left behind. We'll tell her about the heroic act her grandmother committed one day, even how her mother died.

I flip back to the beginning, when Dannie explains the reasons for her book. "Once, when I was a child, my youth was stolen. I dedicate this book to the other children who didn't live to grow up, who were hardened out of all recognition, and who cannot tell their story. It was hard to remember, but if one child is allowed to live and grow in peace it has been well worth the pain."

She was seventy-five years old when she published her book. The world she had been born into was gone and utterly destroyed by the Third World War and other horrors of the 21st century. And yet, Zephram Cochran had made his first test of warp drive, and by the time her grandchildren had grandchildren of their own, the Federation would have grown out of its infancy. But she wanted them all to remember where they came from, and how important it was to never do it again.

We knew too, Sisko and I. We shared her world. I turn to the marker I'd left before, and continue reading.

Her family have just come to the District. They huddle together in the cold comfort of the open street for several weeks. Once, I could not imagine how it would feel, to be so cold and so miserable for so long. But the cargo decks below were no kinder, and I understand all too well now.

Then a miracle happens. Dannie's family buys their way into one of the buildings, taking over a crowded, drafty, reeking room.

Our tiny space with its thin walls and drab shadows surrounds me. But I understand. We are lucky, just as Dannie and her family know themselves to be. Dannie's mother has some medical training. Her father is good at fixing things. For the first time since being locked inside they sleep in relative peace.

There are worse things than filthy little rooms . . . open cargo bays with nothing but a hard floor, hard cold streets in constant danger from ghosts and dims and the police. Walls, no matter how thin and rooms no matter how tiny are yours.

For now. I can't get the morning off my mind, the fear that we were leaving, that it was over. Tessie has cuddled against me, her head on my lap as a pillow.

What happens to us when we are done here? Will Weyoun use it as some kind of leverage to demand more of me? Sometimes I look at Kira and can see the pain in her eyes. To lose freedom is hard. But to grow up without it, to know how precious a gift it is when it is taken away is worse. Will we be relegated to more cargo bays? Will we be sent off to live among strangers? Will Weyoun use this as a way of insuring my continued cooperation?

Can I still play games with someone who is probably presiding over the torture of this child's grandmother?

I put down the book, marking my place carefully for later. Lying down, I let Tessie curl up in my arms. She holds my hand. Warm and soft, she makes the day tolerable.

If only Elaine knew that we share more than anyone knows, except my act of rebellion must stay hidden at all costs. Falling asleep, I dream about the world I'd like to make for her.

But Tessie wakes up too early, leaving too much of the day. We wander back to the common area, and allow Cindy and the children to ignore me. I expect Tessie to go and join them, but she surprises me and stays.

But the view here is as boring as the narrow, dull walls of our quarters. I cannot live in just this world. I need the ones spun by the books.

Dannie's book is too personal, and hurts a little too much right now. I can't read it with her twin in my arms. And I listened to them read last night, here and there. I need the absurd world of Arthur Dent too.

I'm playing a game. If I hide, if I pretend I am not still a part of them-that my act is so different than theirs that I deserve to be set aside-I will get my wish. In my game, I feel no more guilt than Miles, and he doesn't hide.

Tonight, they will not exclude me from the reading. But first I have to catch up. I have plenty of time to do it.

Tessie plays with her doll. I open the Dent book to the first page and read it aloud, watching as she plays, imagining she is listening.

A girl is sitting in a small café in Ricksmansworth when she "suddenly realizes what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place." But her timing is off and she never gets to tell anyone.

For a flash I remember the man in the cargo bay who made us divide the rations. He probably died on Cardassia, but for a moment he reached the pinnacle of his being. For the survivors, like Arthur and I and the rest of us, life has a different goal. But I admire those who had a chance to reach out and make things better, even if there wasn't time for a phone call.

Did Elaine make a difference? Will Sloan and I? Was Elaine's sacrifice a meaningless act of suicide? Will ours prove to have consequences we didn't intend? The girl in the café will never know, but we will.

The rest of us go on, taking each day as it comes. Dannie scrounges for old clothes to make into bandages for her mother. She misses her brother, but can't cry. Too many people have died, too many other children. We work for the monsters destroying our civilization because we want to live. We believe we have the right to survive. We draw invisible lines about what acts of collaboration are acceptable and which make us traitors.

Tonight Ezri will hold me again, make up for the long day. Tomorrow I will not have to read the book myself. Somehow I will make a difference, even if only to me.

What will I do with the inordinately long day that will leave?

The words flow so much better read aloud. The style is catchy, unconventional. I can savor the images when I slow them down. I enjoy the jokes better this way-the way Mr. Prosser has visions of axe's and a predilection for little fur hats, the only vestige of his Mongolian ancestry remaining of his descent from Genghis Kahn. Ford talks him into replacing Arthur in the mud in front of the bulldozer, which seems reasonable at the time. As the Vogon fleet comes closer to Earth, Ford takes Arthur out for a drink knowing the bulldozer and the house and Mr. Prosser are all doomed, along with he and Arthur if they don't get to the pub in time to have enough to drink.

The last time I passed Quarks, the space was filled with crates and shelves, the holosuites gone. But I can close my eyes, see the swirl of people and sounds and life it once held. I don't think of them as gone, just away. I can let them live that way, let the pub where Ford drags a protesting Arthur become real as well.

I have plenty of time today to finish last nights reading. I'm actually looking forward to tonight, even if they pretend I'm not there. The Vogon ships descend as Arthur hears the bulldozer knocking down his house. The Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic winking madly, Ford is prepared with his towel packed away. The Vogon demolition beams are energized and light pours out of the hatchways. And The Vogon Construction Fleet coasts away amid a terrible ghastly silence where a moment before the Earth had stood.

Is that how it ends, a normal day with a moment of panic-and then silence? Telling myself the human race, save for one Arthur Dent, has just expired I put down the book. I should be grimly reminded of Cardassia, of the Klingon home world and what will likely become of our own Earth, but not now. This is so absurd, so different from our own universe. Would it be easier if it all ended in a quick flash instead of this prolonged misery?

My throat is dry, and I brave the silence and get a drink of water, ignored as I pass the children and their teacher. Tessie is resting, playing with her doll, and stays behind. Cindy's playing a game with them. She doesn't look at me and I once more ignore them. The children are too intent on their game to notice.

How will I manage the days, if all of them are this long and deadly quiet?

There is still too much time in the day and I've gotten as far as I can read.

Tessie is absorbed in her doll. I read a bit more of Dannie's story. Her brother Casey is already gone, when more children perish in a widespread epidemic. Her mother seldom speaks anymore, and her father has given himself to the comfort of drinking. He's always drunk now, she notes in careful, cold words. Many drink, she says, and he bullies her mother most of the time. She stays away when she can, waiting until he collapses at night before she can relax and sleep. She is quiet in the morning until he leaves. I think of the children outside, playing their games. We have no crutches to lean on, but I suspect it would be much the same with us if they existed.

I wake when the book falls on the floor, staring at the walls, wondering how much longer I must wait before there is some company. Dannie's book is going too fast. I don't want to run out of things to read or I'll lose my mind. I wonder if Weyoun thinks this is a reward.

The gate is opening. I wander out to see who is back and notice Kira standing there, limping from a bandaged foot. I sit down at one of the tables, still invisible to Cindy and her charges. There is a little blood seeping through Kira's bandages. Their new doctor must have tended to the injury. I'd go back and read more, but invisible or not it's good to have company.

Unlike the others, Kira makes it a point to stare. I can live with being anonymous. This hurts too much and I head back to my quarters. Whatever happened to the vision of Sisko, of the hint to trust me? Or has she decided that Sisko ran out on us too, that his visions no longer count?

Kira follows me. She blocks the narrow corridor before I can get away. She is standing very close to me. "Ezri may not say it, but she forgives you," she says.

"I didn't ask her to," I say, playing my game, with the beginnings of a suspicion that Kira is playing along. Even if she isn't, it is a relief to just to have someone to talk to.

"She loves you. It's been known to happen," she says, and won't look at me.

Something very odd had happened between her and Odo before we retook the station in that other life. Perhaps she has reason to understand.

"I guess you would all rather be dead," I say, filling my role of martyr.

"Is that why you did it?" she replies. I can feel the hostility, but her gaze is rather cool. I can't tell if she believes I'd prefer the Founders live rather than forfeit these peoples lives or is playing the same game as me.

But I wonder what I would have done without Sloan. Would I be able to sacrifice all these people?

"You didn't throw away the fruit," I note.

She looks me over, ignoring the remark. "Do they deserve to live?"

I decide to be honest. If anyone is listening, I don't care anymore. As far as they know, my opinion didn't stop me from cooperating. "No, they deserve to die. I never said they didn't."

She has me cornered and I can't get past her. I just want to be home, watch Tessie until Ezri comes back. "You just cured them," she says.

"I did what I had to do," I tell her, growing annoyed, no longer sure what she's up to.

She just keeps staring and I'm about ready to push her out of the way. "I'd like to get to my quarters," I say, rather testily.

I glare at her. The feelings she is bringing to the surface are dangerous. I don't dare let them show.

She is watching me too closely. Can she see the hidden worry I dare not deal with. What if the disease does not kill them? It bothers me that I could never test that part.

I do not want to be the man who saved the Founders.

Kira is still watching me. I force myself to look away. She moves down the corridor. I follow her, intrigued by the look of recognition in her eyes.

I'm standing right next to her when she stops me, looking me straight in the eyes. "Just as I did, before you came here. But you didn't understand then."

I remember, when we'd first arrived on the station, how hard it had been to understand the Bajorans-especially people like Kira who had fought back and could only now openly express their anger.

How innocent we must have been.

She can tell there is more than meets the eye. She understands the personal cost of doing what must be done. The others don't know what to look for. At least, not yet.

"Have you heard anything, about . . . " I ask, hoping that it's over, that they die soon rather than later.

"No, maybe Miles . . . " But her tone is wary. She's warning me not to be so obvious as Elaine. She is pushing me to see if I'm going to react.

"Let's hope so," I say, resigned. She's fed and cared for the women they will or have murdered. She can't help them either. But we both know Elaine took too many chances, dared them to find her.

We share a moment of understanding. I can see the silent support in her eyes. She won't openly defend me or make life any easier when I'm ignored. But she doesn't need to ask details and won't give away the secret.

Tonight, when I invade their reading, she'll ignore me just like the rest. Miles gave me the book to read out of friendship, I think, not necessarily understanding. I respect that. But I wish it was more.

She understands. For now, that is all that matters.

I make my way back to my quarters and read the rest of the day, reading over the Dent book again, noting my favorite parts. Tessie goes out to play with the other children for a time, and in a way it's a relief. I need some time by myself. I must remember the game, how to play the most important game of pretend I've ever played. Tessie is wonderful to hold and cherish, but too much a reminder of the cost of failing.

Arthur is given a bable fish to put in his ear, and only then can he hear the Vogon's words that were gibberish before. After capture they must endure the poetry, the worse in the universe, before being tossed into space. I keep thinking of Garak and how much he would appreciate the persuasion value of the worse poetry of the universe, but show nothing of his inner thoughts. At best, there would be a small hint of interest. But Garak is dead now. There was no infinite improbability drive to save him, as were Arthur and Ford-and just in the nick of time. Perhaps luck is a large measure of survival. After all, we are lucky too.

But I turn back to a special passage, one that stays with me even after I'm done. Arthur has just realized the Earth is gone. Still stunned by the kick of the hyperspace drive, he tries to muddle it through.

"The Earth."

"Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind. There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth gone, it was too big. He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone. No reaction. He thought of all the people he had been close to. No reaction. Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket two days before and felt a sudden stab-the supermarket was gone, everyone in it was gone."

How, I ask myself, will we feel when the inevitable comes and Earth is demolished by the fires and bayonets of the Jem'Hadar? How will we deal with the grief of something too big to feel, or will we simply grow cold? Which death will make it real, family, friends, or the neighbor down the street you'd almost forgotten? Which place will be missed the most, the Alamo, the old buildings of London, or the new things that made it paradise? How soon will we join Arthur Dent in his own sorrow for something lost which cannot be reclaimed?

There is noise outside. People are returning. I pick up the book, intending to give it to Miles without too much notice. I will listen tonight because they won't walk away from a reading. I may be set apart but I still need them and the story. Arthur goes on and so must I. I push away all the fears for a little while and watch as Ezri enters, carefully not looking at me. I can survive this and all the rest. I did what I had to do, and now I'll have to learn to live with it.

End, Part 2, Chapter 10 of Surrender


	11. Surrender Part 2 Chapter 11

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 2 – Necessary Compromises

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consentual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forwarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this story:

The Underground Man, by Ross MacDonald

The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Chapter 11

Another long, dull day . . . worse since I invaded the evening's reading and do not have that to catch up on. Tessie spends a little time with me, and naps in her own bed, but mostly she's played with the other children. It's been hours since breakfast, and will be many hours more until anyone else returns. Tessie is asleep with me for the moment, but I've done all the reading I want to and simply feel restless.

But there's nowhere to go and nothing to do. I am keeping quiet so as to not wake Tessie. Again, I wonder if Weyoun considers this form of torture a special gift for saving the gods, or if it is as he intends it to be, the payment he believes we deserve for dragging out our jobs as long as Realand and company did.

There has been no sign of them, not even a rumor. We all assume them dead, but at least a rumor would confirm it, make it real. Perhaps that way, it would feel like Tessie was ours. Not knowing, there is still a sense of taking care, trying to hold back the fondness in fear she'll be taken back.

She's just settled down for her nap, sound asleep, when I hear the commotion-screams, shouting, children running.

I look at Tessie, worried. I didn't hear the gate open, but it is possible to push it gently. Hesitantly I go outside.

And freeze. Cindy is holding a little girl no older than Tessie. The child is crying hysterically. All the rest have retreated behind Cindy-all but Jeffrey and his sister. He's a little ways away, Calla held inside the cocoon of his arms. She's crying too. But I can't get my eyes off of Jeffrey, the cold, dangerous look in his face and body, the knight ready to strike at the first hint, protecting his princess from the angry dragon.

It's been growing closer and closer and finally the timebomb inside him has gone off. As I approach, he starts to back away, nearly dragging Calla along, keeping her inside his shield.

Cindy deigns to talk to me. "She's hurt," she says, indicating the little girl in her arms. "She and Calla had an argument about the toy, and Jeffrey decided to protect his sister with that."

Nearby, still where it fell, is a broken leg from a chair. I pick it up, Jeffrey retreating further, visibly dragging his sister along. There is no blood, but it is hard enough to do damage, especially to such a young child.

"I need to check her over," I tell Cindy.

The girl isn't hysterical now, but still sobbing. Cindy opens her arms, lets me take her to a nearby table where I check her condition. There's a large lump on her head, several bruises on her arm. But her eyes focus, and the skin isn't broken. She should be all right, though I'll check back on her later.

I tell Cindy as much. She's relieved, but still worried. "I'll keep her with me, have her rest. Is that enough?"

"As much as we can do. She's probably got a concussion, but minor. If she seems disoriented or her eyes don't focus, get me right away."

She nods, taking the girl. I advance on Jeffrey, continuing to back away until I am too close, naked fury in those eyes as I stand above him. "Let go of your sister," I tell him.

In answer he pulls back, trying to kick me as he starts to drag her. She starts to scream. But I'm faster and stronger, and take Calla from him in a sudden grab.

For a moment he is stunned, and quiets, but starts to crawl forward. I have Calla at the table, breathing hard and scared, near panic. But as far as I can tell she is fine.

I give her to Cindy. "Have her rest too. I'll take care of him."

Jeffrey backs away, under the tables. He's small, but the anger and venom in his eyes is still dangerous. I'm cautious as I approach. "Jeffrey, come with me. Now."

He ignores me, but I expected him to. But he looks away, just for a second as the table leg falls a little away from him. Distracted, he misses my hand grabbing him, pulling him from under the table.

He's a small angry animal fighting for its life. He tries to bite and kick and tear himself loose. I pull him back from the others, everyone staring as he struggles in my firm grip.

He demands to be let go, to have his sister, makes threats against me and the others if he's not released. Even so small, I take the threats as real.

Children killed on Bajor, children turned from childhood by those they attacked. Jeffrey is dangerous, and I wonder what will become of him.

But I remember the boy who trailed after his mother when his sister was born, who liked to draw pictures of castles and knights, who dreamed of the wonders of the universe. That child was destroyed in that cargo hold, though he will never say how.

How can I cooperate, even to revenge us, with monsters who make orphans of little girls and treat children so barbarically they make monsters of them?

Jeffrey is still struggling, but with less determination. I get Cindy's attention. "Have one of the older children get Tessie. I don't want her anywhere near him."

Two of the children Jeffrey's age scamper to my quarters, and a sleepy Tessie is led outside. I drag him along, fighting me again.

Jeffrey has to get himself under control, and be kept away from the rest. The injured child was so young. She could easily have been Tessie.

I drag Jeffrey inside, dumping him in the furthest corner. I sit on the chair, blocking any attempt at escape.

He stares, the most intense hatred I've ever seen in the child's eyes. If he could, he'd kill me to get back to his sister.

Taking a length of bandage, I issue a warning. "Don't move. Don't make a sound or I'll tie you up and gag you. I mean it."

Jeffrey was about to say something and stops. He looks at the floor, drawing himself back, looking as if he was a snake coiled to strike should anyone come near.

It quiets outside. Cindy reads them a story. I listen, distracted, but not paying much attention. I never take my eyes off of the boy, waiting for my first moment of inattention, his first chance to run.

Finally, after what seems like hours of watching, he looks up, staring straight at me. "You deserve to die," he says. "Calties all deserve to die."

I've heard the term, the local slang for the helpful collaborators Weyoun has found. But it's the first time it's been applied to me and it hurts. I should keep my promise, but he hasn't moved. And I'm struck by the coldness in his eyes. It's not anger now, not the kind that inspired the attack on the child. This is cold, pure hate. If he could he would do it.

He does not move, just stares. I want to go away from him, stop seeing the reflection of myself in his eyes. I want to stop the little voice that believes he's right. But he is too dangerous right now. He has given me a function in this place again, and I will take it.

The room quiets, except for Jeffrey's stare. I notice he's still tense, but tired. Eventually he'll fall asleep. Cindy's not reading anymore. The children are playing or talking in their little voices. I wish Jeffrey could be like them again.

Then, when he looks asleep there is a sudden noise and I'm distracted. Jeffrey is gone. I notice him under the bed, something in his hand. I can't tell what it is, but can't let him out.

I pretend not to see him until he turns, inching towards me. He's got a piece of metal, hard, rusty, and sharp. He must have been hiding it before. There is nowhere to back away, no place to go. He's got the knife in his hand, can reach my leg. Here, especially if it's deep, that would be enough to insure a miserable death.

I kick him, missing the knife, and he skidders under the bed. I back off, knowing how little he has to do to succeed. The boy shrinks along the wall where I can't reach him without being slashed by the knife.

I must lure him out. Standing by the bed, I kneel towards him. "You want to kill me. Try."

He inches towards me, knife extended. I'm counting on my reflexes, and as soon as he is close enough snatch his arm, twisting it hard until he drops the knife, kicking it away with my other hand. Not sparing him, he's jerked to the bed where I first tie his hands, then his feet.

Still struggling, I dump him on the floor by the wall, facing away from me. I push my foot into his back. He may be a child but he was going to kill me. I don't kick him but want to.

"You say one word, and I gag you. You move and I blindfold you. Understand?" I move my foot away, tapping him with the toe. He jumps a little.

Later, watching him from the bed, I study the knife, wrapping it in some bandage to keep from cutting myself. It's sharp, home-made and deadly. Jeffrey doesn't move. But I remember the look in his eyes, and am sure he's killed before. What sort of hell did they put our children in? What kind of place would turn a child into an executioner?

I realize he's asleep. But I can't relax. What happens now, with a child killer in our midst. Or should I keep that particular observation to myself. They all know he's dangerous. Perhaps some of them wouldn't have minded too much if he'd not missed with the knife.

A tap at the door wakes Jeffrey, the only sign that he stiffens a little.

Through the open door, Kira says grimly, "Go check the child again. I'll watch."

I leave Jeffrey to her. She briefly notes that he's restrained, and I show her the knife. "He had this," I note.

She eyes him with concern. "He try to use it on you?"

"Tried. He didn't get far." I decide to leave it at that and Jeffrey says nothing.

Outside there is gathering around Calla and the other child. Her parents are pale and scared, looking towards Jackson and his wife with worry.

I'm almost noticed. The child is fine, probably with a headache but not serious. I inform the parents and intend to leave.

But Jackson corners me. "What about Jeffrey?"

"Kira's with him," is all I say.

"What happened to him? Did he tell you? Sometimes he talks in his sleep, says terrible things. But that's all he ever says about it, in his sleep." Jackson is close to collapse. I try to lure him away, want him to know to watch his son, but he is quickly falling into a helpless stare.

It is Cheryl Jackson who asks. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, but I found a knife on him. I tied him up, had to after that."

She nods, sadness mixed with resignation. "Jeffrey will have to be kept away from the other children. It's been made very plain that he won't be allowed near them, or the others will take action. I'm not sure how. If you can, could you watch him, at least for now?"

I don't want to see the child turned executioner. I don't want to remember the coldness in his eyes, the calmness as he tried to slash me with the knife. But if this is something I can do to belong, I'll help. "As long as I can. Calla is fine. But I'd keep him away from her for now, if you can."

She nods. "We'll make sure." She is hiding the pain, worried over her son, the way her husband is near collapse. But she is strong, taking Carl's hand. "Could you bring Jeffrey to our quarters now?"

"Sure." I hate the thing Jeffrey has become, but it felt very good not to be invisible.

Kira is sitting on the bed, watching as the boy squirms on the floor. "The parents want him now. I'll bring him."

"I'll come." She watches as I heft him off the ground, carrying the knife herself. "I'll take care of this before it becomes a problem for everyone."

I have to drag Jeffrey there. He refuses to walk. Calla is in her parents room, Jeffrey going alone to the other. "I'll untie him," I offer as I drop him on the bed.

Carl is standing nearby. The devastated look is fading, replaced by anger. He stares at the boy, one hand held in a fist. "Don't bother."

I flee the room. Cheryl is trying to talk to him, calm him down, but I doubt she'll succeed. I think of Marta and the battering she'd received. And Donnie and the way she kept away from her father. What are we becoming?

"Little bastard," mutters Carl as I run away from reality, thinking of Tessie and Ezri and how good it will be to hear the story tonight.

o0o

The Dominion war is over. The end came today as the Federation signed an unconditional surrender. Ross, representing Starfleet, and the highest ranking survivor of the Federation council signed the document. Even this far away, we got all the details.

The crews came back early so they could hear the announcement. I was watching Jeffrey, still hardly moving since the beating he took from his father. We were all called out, and details were told. I kept thinking of Ross with a rifle at his back, the numb realization still too hard to take that it is over.

Ross and the others are probably dead by now. Nobody will say it-nobody wants to think it-but the Dominion doesn't just let you surrender. They make examples. I still remember Admiral Ross's speech about war . . . inter alma silent leges. In war there are no rules. Certainly not in this one, except the winner makes the rules, decides who lives and who dies.

And now we are the conquered people. Now, if we had believed it would come to be, we know that the only liberation will be our own. It should be easier for me, knowing it has been set in action. But it isn't. I was maneuvered into this as I have been so many other things.

I wonder, when they executed him, what did Ross think of? All the rules he'd broken, the compromises he'd made, all for naught? I don't know why I still hate the man, despise him for what he was, but I hope he lives. I hope they lock him in a room and make him beg-force him to capitulate and accept the kind of humiliation we live with and understand what it feels like to be used like a puppet on a string. Maybe I could forgive him then.

And if he's alive, maybe others who matter more are too.

We had more fruit with dinner. It is round and slightly yellowish. The skins are thin and a little tart, with the meat of the fruit very sweet. I have no idea what they are called.

I hope to never see another of them. I'll never forget why they gave them to us.

Everyone is very silent. A lot of us had? have? family or friends on earth, and little hope of ever seeing them again.

Cheryl Jackson took her son home, tears in her eyes. Her entire family lived on Earth. Most likely they are dead by now. Strange, I can think of her family dead, but not my own.

We've all heard the rumor about the Klingon home world, laid ruin and it population eradicated like Cardassia. No reason to expect any different for Earth. Except Earth was home . . .

I keep thinking of Arthur Dent, trying to make the vaporizing of home real and that complete stranger who got through his disbelief. I think of my parents, and friends left behind. And yet, like Arthur, it isn't real. But there was a neighbor, an old man who lived near my family the last time I was there, who grew roses. His garden was his life and passion and reason for staying alive. He had every color in every size plant and flower he could make room for.

His roses are gone now. He is gone too. All I can think of is his pleasant smile and the wonderful scent of his garden. I hope he died before they burned his flowers. It would have broken his heart. I must believe my parents died quickly. They made mistakes, but at least before I lost them forever we came to understand each other.

I'm sure they are dead. The Dominion would not let the Federation's determined resistance go unpunished.

This vivid image of bodies . . . of soot blackened shapes in the smoke filled sunset . . . of the reek of death on the wind . . . I can't chase it away when I close my eyes. It was a short work day after the announcement. I retreated to our quarters today to get away from the rest of them.

There is a sense of numbness, a complete disbelief that we are a conquered people, that millions, maybe billions of us have already been eradicated. It's too much to take in. It's too much to believe.

Some of us are just sitting in the common area. Others have retreated to their quarters to sit with family. Ezri is quiet, stunned. She's not human, has only visited Earth, but the fate of Trill and many other places may well be the same. We can only guess; she doesn't know if her home, her own kind have survived at all.

And it's far worse when you have to live with it alone. Miles brought back more books yesterday. Eveything we've read before is here now. No trades were even discussed. They are going to send more of us away to . . . where? But we'll probably be the last.

I didn't bother to ask, since nobody paid any attention to me, but looked through the pile and found another two books to read. I'm not welcome at readings but I go anyway. I know Miles would leave the book out where I could read it alone during the day, marked to the place they stopped, but I still need them. They pretend I'm not there and I let them. They won't forgo readings to spite me. If I had to be alone all the time I'm lose my mind. But it's hard to care right now. We all share this grief, but they won't let me in-not even for a moment of silent support. I don't know if I'm really in a mood for satire, not now. But I like to hear them laugh. If they still do, still can.

There is a brief reading tonight, despite the news. Arthur is not the only human left alive, a woman who now calls herself Trillion having followed a guy named Phil from a party months before. Arthur remembered her, having tried hard to win her from Phil. But Phil turned out to have two heads and three arms and be from outer space, and Arthur hadn't a chance.

I smiled a little at that, wondering if my attempts at luring Jadzia had looked as pitiful. But I have her now. She is there more often than Ezri and it still hurts. Worf is dead, but I still feel as if I've stolen her when Jadzia banishes my Ezri completely.

Morning was very quiet. Trillion had heard about Earth, and she stares at the two white mice which are the only link with Earth that remain. That night she can't sleep. Ford is too excited about his escape from exile and lies awake. Life isn't going the way Zaphod expected and it's keeping him awake. But Arthur is too tired and he sleeps.

The rumors had been rife that Dominion forces had taken everything near home. We all knew it was just a matter of time.

Then, yesterday's reading was oddly cheering. The Heart of Gold, passing through every point in the universe, has found the legendary planet Magrathea, once so rich it simply disappeared and is now just a "fairy tale".

But it exists and the Heart of Gold is orbiting the dark planet. A missile attack is launched, and Zaphod is oddly excited.

" 'Hey, this is terrific!' he said. Someone down there is trying to kill us.'"

" 'Terrific,' Arthur said."

" 'But don't you see what this means?'"

" 'Yes, we are going to die.'"

" 'Yes, but apart from that.'"

" '*Apart* from that?'"

" 'It means we must be on to something.'"

" 'How do we get off it?'"

Then Arthur has the idea of restarting the improbability drive. The missiles become a bowl of petunias, which thinks "Oh no, not again," as it hits the planet, and a sperm whale which has a brief, if confused, bit of life before crashing into the planets surface in a big wet thud.

We went to bed with visions of the absurd and it made it easier to sleep, easier to forget how soon it would end. Then, this afternoon, the surrender of the Federation was announced and the petunias and the whales and the mystery of Magrathea was shattered by reality.

I'm keeping Danielle's book. I turned to her today, rereading it again, this time just for the flavor. The part I read most often comes just before the assault when her father came to the building to tell their story. He was squeezed out of his job, became very ill and the bills got too far behind. There wasn't a place for him when he recovered. The debts were huge. They lost the house because they ran out of money and even selling everything they had left wouldn't make a difference.

Each time I open the book to that passage I'm struck by the reality that I could have walked right by him-and probably did. Danielle was with him and I saw her among the crowd. I search my memory for her face, but can't find it. I feel connected to this girl in a deeply personal way and won't let go of her.

I keep thinking about her life. I grieve with her when her father is killed during the assault. She watched as he was shot, held him as his blood spilled out on the street. She never forgot it. She never forgave them. Just as this day is one none of us will ever allow to fade.

The grief and shock and horror of this moment will live with me the rest of my life. I can't stand the thought of having helped the monsters now. I wonder if some of these people would rather have died than have me save them.

But I have a secret to savor. When the changelings start to die, they'll know. It will not take very long. There will be no time to make plans . . . just like those trapped in the places they picked as examples.

But it is going to be a long six months. For the others, I do not exist. I would even welcome their disgust over being invisible. But I dream of the day when I can tell them why. They must know I did not betray them. Still, even more, I'd like them to feel the satisfaction of getting revenge.

o0o

Not a single word was said at breakfast today. Ezri held Tessie last night, and I wrapped myself around her. I don't know if we slept or simply gave in to the shock. We didn't even consider going to the beach. What if it had bodies floating in the waves?

Our people dragged themselves out of bed and stared at the tables, ate in grief and filed out without any hint of feeling. I was handed Jeffrey, still black and blue but more aware, and almost welcomed the need to be more watchful today. He doesn't look at me, just stares at the floor. But if he didn't hurt so much, he'd have tried something.

I'm more alone than ever now. Tessie stays with Cindy most of the time, Jeffrey in the way. I've heard that word-caltie-in passing, though I only assume it's about me. I hurry by, don't invade their privacy.

Now that we are fully owned by them, the only dignity we get is what we make for ourselves. But I know if Weyoun asks again what I'll say. I can't look at Jeffrey, remember the child he used to be, and ever cooperate again.

What happens to him next? Does he take the route Worf did? Or does he fume silently until he explodes again, and perhaps this time his father will beat him a little too long. Or does he somehow grow up and become one of the vicious young killers Kira is too familiar with?

Whatever becomes of him, the bright, inquisitive child is dead. The thing in his body now is a monster which will consume whatever traces of the boy remain.

Another tap on the door, and Carl is there. "We're back early. I figured you'd like to get rid of him."

Carl strides over to his son and nearly drags him out. The boy is clearly in a lot of pain, and I wonder when the next beating will start. Carl does what he is told. He never stalls, never annoys them. But he sees the world around him too, and Jeffrey is his personal reminder.

"Is everybody back?" I ask, hoping for an early reading.

"No just the Ops crews. Nothing much to do now." Jeffrey tries to twist away from his father's grip, and Carl yanks him back. "He hasn't tried anything, has he?"

"No. He just sits and glares."

"Better not do anything," mutters Carl as he tows his child away. I think of an old story, how fairies would take a child and replace it with one of their own. If only that had happened to Jeffrey. Then we might find him again some day.

Jeffrey hates the monsters. But I think in time he'll hate his father as much as he does the others, or perhaps more.

I retrieve Tessie, needing a reminder that children still exist that aren't like Jeffrey, and she hugs me. Somehow, it makes up a little for the rest of them.

More time drags by, playing with Tessie, reading a little, holding her during her nap.

Eventually the rest of the crews get back, much later than normal. Nobody is trying very hard. It took hours more to do what they did the day before. Ezri goes straight to our quarters and kisses Tessie, then gives me a silent hug.

It's different now that it's over, that the last bit of hope has been destroyed.

Even dinner is late, everyone waiting impatiently, staring out at the gate.

First, the cart rolls in, and while we're all lined up for our food the gate is pushed open a second time.

We've accepted that most of the people we knew on Earth are dead, that some of our own here have gone as well. We know the dead do not come back, we say good bye and go on. But sometimes they do.

Four Jem'Hadar march inside, holding onto a disheveled prisoner. They shove him ahead, causing him to lose his balance and fall. He's filthy, covered in blood, and not reacting to them at all.

But while we don't pull out of line, especially with the Jem'Hadar there, everyone stares. Kevin Realand has defied all the rules and come back alive.

They withdraw, leaving him where he fell. There is no sign of the women, no inkling of what became of them, but too much blood on him to bode well. A few people start towards him, but he starts to push himself to his own feet on shaky legs, finally standing, and slowly, mechanically, gets in line for dinner.

Ralph Townsend, near the front of the line, takes his bowl and leads Realand to a seat. Placing it in front of Realand, he silently gets back in line.

Dinner proceeds in silence, Realand eating slowly, nearly collapsing once. I should check to see how he is, but I doubt he'd let me, and even if I did, what difference would I make? He will ask if he wants me to, or I will insist if it is something I can fix. But whatever led to the blood soaked clothes can't be fixed that easily. I let him go, stumbling back towards his quarters, wishing as much as the others that he'd explained, that he'd tell us they were alive, just not here.

We've lost too much. Even if it's Realand, to get one of them back matters.

Miles is sitting next to Jackson, Jeffrey not in view. His mother is taking his food to him in his room. Once, Miles threatened Realand not to hit his wife, but he sits next to a man who beat his son unconscious. No matter that the boy is psychotic by now. Once, Miles would never have accepted a man who beat up a boy. But now, it keeps the danger under control because the boy is too badly hurt to hurt anyone else. We used to have standards. We used to be civilized. Now we have a code of survival.

Nobody has started to read, and I don't want to sit around out here. Tessie is sleepy, and I pick her up to put her to bed.

She hasn't changed, grown taller or heavier or learned any new words. But she's different. Before dinner she was a child we were watching. Now, seeing all the blood, the horrific look in his eyes, she is ours. I'm absolutely certain that her grandmother, even if she hadn't been ill, will never come back to us.

Ezri returns a little while longer. "We're doing a real short reading," she whispers.

But she's looking at Tessie. "Anybody know anything?" I ask.

"He does," she says. "But he won't say. Give your daughter a kiss."

She's asleep, dreaming. I kiss her lightly on the forehead, not wanting to wake her. "She did what she believed was right," I say very quietly.

Ezri just nods. "Someday, Tessie will be very proud of her."

The reading is very quick, and we adjourn to our rooms and our families, and I hold them both as if nothing will ever tear us apart.

o0o

Alessa Riland Carlan was born today. I delivered her late in the afternoon with her father Justin holding her mother's hand. She was born in the cramped quarters of her parents inside this locked cage.

She is the first child of our group to be born a slave.

Not all of her family is gone. She is named after her grandmother, who was on Earth and is probably dead by now. Her mother had family that lived on one of the colonies they captured early in the war. Nobody knows about them. At least she has her parents.

One of the older children came to get me when her mother went into labor this morning and there was no one to ask for her to be taken to the other doctor. Realand, left behind as well, was recruited to watch Jeffrey. He knew about the end of the war by then, and the way Jeffrey had snapped. Jeffrey must have remembered his old reputation because he slunk into the corner and didn't move.

I didn't like the look in Realand's eyes much either when he said Jeffrey wouldn't be allowed to hurt anyone. But then I'd rather that than having to declare someone dead or watch them die slowly if Jeffrey got loose.

Returning, Jeffrey was crouched in the corner, a cut on his cheek that hadn't been there before. I didn't like the look in Realand's eyes either. He's hurting so much inside he needs to smash someone to let it out. He hasn't said a word about the women.

Once, Ezri would have tried to draw it out. But she's not the same woman who tried to help Worf and Jackson long ago. She isn't Ezri now, or Jadzia, or any of the others. Since the beating, she is a tumbled mixture of all her selves as demanded by the moment.

Most of all, she's Tessie's new mother.

But for me today was such a good day. I understand they would have preferred the other doctor, but at least there were no complications. Now her mother will have one more child to watch during the day.

The way things are going, Cindy will never know what a workcrew is like-at least one of them here. She won't watch little children all her life.

Having been granted the gift of my life again, it will be harder to take my days anymore. I sit in the front sometimes, even if I'm ignored. I like to watch Tessie play, the others talk in their childish voices. At least they weren't born slaves like Alessa.

Watching Jeffery, I've been rereading The Underground Man, the book Ezri and I got as a wedding present. Miles returned it to us when it had made the rounds. I cannot forget the father, marred as a child, damaged in ways nobody understood. And then there is the tragedy of his own son, damaged as he had been.

Jeffrey has been warned that should he make any trouble I'll give him back to Realand. He hardly moves now. The boy's kept a prisoner among prisoners, the abuse passed on from guard to us, visited on our own.

I dwell on Danielle's fate. One of the books Miles got was a history of the 21st century. Some of the premier terrorists of the age that followed the Sanctuary Districts were survivors of the riots who could not forget.

Will the children living through this, at least those old enough to remember what was lost, harbor dreams of revenge that poison their lives even if the monsters die and we are free? Will Alessa Carlan ever have any idea of what has been taken from us? Will Jeffrey grow to be as mean as the society that made him into this?

I already love Tessie, but sometimes wish someone else was there to raise her. It would take equipment we aren't likely to have for Ezri and I to have a child. I can't bear to watch this new world twist and damage my own and not be able to do anything about it.

I don't want to stare at the walls again tomorrow. Jeffrey will have to make due with Realand. I'm going to try to go with the others, see something of the life they live before it, too, disappears.

The odd part is, I believe Weyoun intends this reprieve from work to be a reward. He doesn't know it is more a silent revenge. I don't know if the guards will let me, if they count or just watch bodies, but I must try to get away before I lose my mind.

Today, though, it was lucky I was here. I used to enjoy delivering babies, with the joy of a new life and the promise it held.

But what does this child have to look forward to, even if the monsters die and we fight our way to freedom? The ideal and the dream are gone. All she'll have is surviving, be it enslavement or the ruin left by the war.

I feel sorry for her. Her parents dreams will be nothing more than stories. Our world will be as much a fantasy as Oz was to Aunt Em.

But it *was* good to be a doctor again.

I guess I'm lucky. No matter what happens to us and our people, they'll always need me. Even if Weyoun and his kind have decided all of us are disposable, they will not be here forever.

After, my life will be as it was during the war, with not enough hours in the day and never enough supplies. But we will be free then.

No matter the cost, that moment can't come soon enough.

o0o

Cindy gets to spend the day in her quarters with her newborn today. Cheryl Jackson, by now also visibly pregnant, has taken over watching the children.

But I didn't try to get into line. Something is wrong. The bowl was taken to Jeffrey, but not returned. I was informed that Realand would watch him today, but Cheryl looked exhausted, on the edge of emotional collapse. Carl, on the other hand, was much calmer.

I decide to wait until the rest are gone, and then go to investigate. Realand is resting in one room, Jeffrey confined to the other.

"What are you doing in here?" he demands. "You have no business in my rooms."

"I want to check on the boy."

Realand watches carefully as I move closer. "Don't go in there. You weren't asked."

"You're not going to stop me," I say, pushing him back. He still hurts. He lets me by.

"You won't like it," he warns.

I don't. Inside, confined to a box, Jeffrey lies on his stomach. He's naked, his back covered with welts from a cot strap. At least there are no open wounds. But Jeffrey is huddled in the box, his hands tied. Before, there was anger and coldness in his eyes. Now there is a bitterness that goes very deep. But mostly he is lost, cringing at my touch. I have the feeling Jeffrey has been shattered inside and nothing will ever put him back together.

Realand is eating a bowl of mush, but he already had one.

"What happened?" I ask, not hiding my dislike of the whole situation.

"Kid tried to grab his sister. He's not allowed near her, or anybody for that matter. His father punished him." Realand is casual about it, continuing. "Nobody's business but theirs."

I watch as he eats. "Is that what they're paying you to keep this quiet?"

"No, just make sure he stays put. He gets out of the box I use this," he says, holding up the cot strap. "I've had some practice with it on a whore."

Marta had welts too, deep ones. I wonder about Cassie. "And your wife? I think you were warned about that."

The horror in his eyes makes me forget Jeffrey for a second. The anger is bubbling, near the surface. I don't want Jeffrey to suffer for it. I keep thinking of Stanley Broadhurst's son, caught in the same vicious cycle as the father. Jeffrey is damaged, dangerous. But Carl is turning his son from a timebomb to something worse, something irretrievable.

Realand's eyes narrow, spewing venom. "Never mention my wife. You don't deserve to speak her name." Then he turns away, stands, and slaps me.

It's unexpected. She's dead, but he must know details. I'll allow him that, won't retaliate. But I'm worried about the boy. I don't want to make things worse.

"I won't. Just leave the boy alone. He's not going anywhere." It's the best I can do for Jeffrey now. Realand is grieving, angry. Until he works it out he's as much a timebomb as Jeffrey.

I can feel the angry glare as I go. But he stays with the boy and Jeffrey behaves. When Jackson returns early I decide to take it up with him.

I corner him in the hallway. "What did Jeffrey do?" I demand.

"You said to keep him away from Calla," says Jackson, irritated. "He wouldn't do it. I won't have him hurting her."

"Did he actually hurt her, or did he just try to be near his sister?"

Carl is on-edge, nervous. "He won't hurt her if he never goes near her."

"You didn't answer my question."

"He touched her, that's enough. What? You want him? You want to wonder when he's going to find another knife and stick it in your back?" He turns and faces me. "My son is dead. That *thing* in there isn't my son, whatever it looks like."

It's too close to my own thoughts, too close to the truth. But Carl is making it worse. "You beat and starve him and he will be. Is that what you want? Did you give Realand that strap so he'd finish the job for you?"

Carl stares at me. "It's an animal. If it touches Calla it doesn't eat for a day. If I had a cage to lock it in I would."

Realand has come out. He's staring at me. "Maybe you should raise it. But I doubt you'd want it around that little girl you stole."

For a moment I quit thinking about Jeffrey, about Carl abandoning his son, about how close that hits to home, or might have. For that moment all I can think of is Tessie. "Her grandmother asked us to take her."

"Before she knew about you." Realand is holding the strap, ready to snap it at me. The explosion inside him is building and I keep out of his way. Then he backs off, snorts at me, "Lucky you, I've got to watch the animal." He shakes the strap at me, "Stinking caltie."

He slinks off into the room. Jackson is watching. "Better watch out," he says. "He's not the only one who thinks that way."

He stomps away, leaving me alone.

Ezri is back by the time I venture out again, playing with Tessie. I keep my distance, wary of Realand and his threats, and Jackson's warning. Realand is looking for a target, and his best option is me.

But Tessie pulls out of Ezri's arms and runs to me. Realand is watching, staring, eyes narrowed. She's persuaded to go back to Ezri, after I make some excuse.

I keep out of sight until the dinner cart arrives. Realand eats a bowl for himself and takes one for Jeffrey. I keep quiet, hoping to appeal to Cheryl later, too preoccupied by my own worries. I sit apart from them, and Ezri has picked up on my nerves and doesn't try to approach. Tessie is tired, and falls asleep in her arms.

I've just gotten up to retreat to our room and out of his sight when Realand attacks, moving behind me, kicking hard behind my knees. It comes as a surprise, and I land on my knees, falling on my side.

Before I can move Realand lands a hard kick into my stomach and the world blurs.

But I can hear him. "This thing," he's saying, "This filthy thing on the floor has taken a child he doesn't deserve. He claims her grandmother agreed, but that was long before he betrayed us. And we can't ask her anymore."

Silence has fallen on the room, and his answer to my attempt to get out of his way is another hard kick, this time in the side, knocking the breath out of me. My hand is on the floor, and he presses his foot on it. I freeze.

His voice is different now. "You all want to know. My wife is dead. She wasn't killed by the Jem'Hadar. There's been too much sabotage. He has help now."

He moves his foot off my hand and I pull it back, a hard kick in the back my reward. I can't leave now. There is a ring of people all around me, and each kick is harder, hurts more. I roll on my stomach hoping to protect myself the best I can.

"He found this monster in prison, ready for execution. He likes to kill, to rape, to torture. He was spared so that he may serve the founders."

His voice is almost a whisper now, the room silent. I don't move, listening intently, hoping the words don't remind him too much of the anger inside.

"I was separated from the others. They already knew about the sabotage, what it was. He demanded I tell him which woman had done it." He stops, with a sharp intake of breath. "I didn't lie. I didn't know. He said we'd have to ask them."

His voice drops so low it's hard to hear, but everyone listens. His foot is further away. I keep watching it, hoping he forgets about me.

"I was brought to this room, both locked in cages, both naked. He asked me again, and I didn't lie to him." He puts a foot on my back, pressing his foot into tender bruised skin. I'm not sure he is even aware of me. "The monster is waiting, and he explains about him, how he'd killed 20 women, *how* he killed them, how long it took before he tired of them. Then he asks which one."

It's like a story, but it's real too. People are getting closer. Ezri is just outside the main ring, trapped in her own cluster of people.

"I wouldn't answer. He tells the monster to pick. He opens the cages, reaches in with his filthy hands . . . then he goes to Cassie, pulls her out, takes her to his place . . . "

Realand speaks slowly, haltingly as the memories come. "He started to tortured her, raped her, made her scream. Ellie, Ellie watched too. He wasn't done when she stood, offering her body to the monster. She confessed to everything. Weyoun made him put Cassie back in her cage. Then he had the monster take Ellie, just play with her, make sure she didn't change her mind."

"He accepted the confession," his voice hardening, the foot moved. "And made Cassie the punishment. To watch."

Realand's voice is quiet as he describes what was done to his wife, how she was ordered to be killed at the end. I tense as he draws his foot back again, then stops.

"Then Ellie," he says, looking at Ezri holding Tessie, then down at me, "Ellie was *given* to him. His possession, his toy. He used to keep his victims alive for weeks. Weyoun was impatient with him. The monster only had her for a week before she'd just be executed . . . if she was still alive." His voice becomes dull, lost. "I spent the rest of the time in one of the little buried cages. When she died, he'd let me go. He told me before they shoved me inside. He didn't take too long, most of a week, but all the time I was there I kept seeing what he was doing to her, remembering Cassie."

"And this thing," he says, anger bubbling again, kicking me hard, "This thing worked with him, just like the monster that tormented our women, tortured them to death." I've barely gotten my breath when his foot slams into me again. Everything is fuzzy now, repeated blows to the same bruises throbbing intensely. "And the worse insult is he's stolen her grandchild." He kicks me again twice in quick succession, the first making me roll a little to my side, the second catching me in the stomach.

He wants to kill me, to make up for Cassie and Elaine. I can't get away, can't move. Maybe if he does he'll leave Ezri alone, not demand Tessie.

Then Kira's voice, louder than his, rational, takes their attention. She pushes her way through the crowd, pushes Realand and his foot away. Then she looks down at me, eyes too hard.

"Quit. Don't kill him. Maybe he might deserve it but you don't want to be like that thing that killed the women."

I can hear them moving back, my vision too blurry to tell much. But Kira is still here. The foot is too far away to touch me. I don't move at all.

"What about the girl?" Realand, still angry.

She taps my side with her toe, not hard but it hurts anyway. "He doesn't deserve her. Her mother was murdered by them, grandmother too. She died out of loyalty to *us*. The child can't be left with a traitor."

She's going to take Tessie. She's saving my life, but somehow it doesn't matter all that much.

There is the sound of a commotion, and I wonder if it's Ezri, if they are trying to tear the child out of her arms. "Stop," orders Kira. "Now, she's a different matter. She has a choice. She can have that thing, or the girl, but not both."

I can't speak to her. Realand is too near. If I try he'll kick me again, never let me say it. But I want Ezri to take the child. She must not be dragged down in disgrace with me.

But she hasn't said a word. She's moving closer, the crowd letting her through.

"Make up you mind, Ezri," says Kira. "They won't wait."

"Take her," she says, and I can hear the terrible catch in her voice. Tessie is confused, calling to Ezri, finally crying.

Then Ezri is besides me, sitting like a protective tigress with a cub. Something about her is wrong, not Ezri, not Jadzia. I hope not Joran. Realand is too near for that.

"I had to. You know why," she whispers.

Kira moves them away, most of them stepping around me, a few not bothering. She's talking about the future, with more orphans, more children to give homes, how they need some rules. Ezri and I are forgotten, left alone.

They give Tessie to Brenda and her husband. She can't have her own.

Someone comes closer, and I tense. But it's Jackson. "Up," he says. Between he and Ezri they drag me off the floor. "You go to the back room tonight. Her too."

Nothing matters now. I knew the ultimate price when I "cured" the Founder. I didn't expect it to hurt this much. At least Elaine got to die.

The back room is a little dark closet. Jackson dumps me on the floor. Ezri sits besides me. Every bruise is throbbing, every tender place inside me spasms when I move.

For a little while, all I can think about is the pain.

But later-I don't know how late since the lights are still bright-Realand opens the door. He stands there, blocking the light. All the anger is burned out, his voice soft, hurting.

"I didn't tell them about Ellie. She's alive. That thing broke her into little pieces. She just wanted to die, for him to finish so it would be over. But there was some kind of trouble. The thing got confessions. He made her help him. Then the Vorta gave her to him as a gift."

He pauses. "But she's dead. I was taken to her before they released me, so I'd know. She . . . she did what he told her, no matter what. She would have killed me but he stopped her. He just wanted me to know." His voice drags. "And the boy, he chewed his way loose during the nights meeting, hid with his sister. When we found them Carl was ready to kill him but I stopped him. I'm taking the boy. I won't spare him, but I won't act like Carl either."

Realand shuts the door, trapping us inside the little room. It hurts to move, but we find a way to hold each other.

"Kira saved your life," says Ezri. "She did more, saved his as well."

"Maybe even Jeffrey." I add.

"I had to give her up, you know that. She'd just keep getting hurt." Ezri slumps, defeated.

I can't think about Tessie yet, the hole her taking has torn inside us. Ezri tries to explain it, tries to make it sound better, but for both of us she's still waiting in the room, when we're let out of this darkness, and will be there with her happy hugs.

Without her it would be so empty now.

We try to sleep. But I hurt so much and it's too cold and the floor is too hard. Eventually I fall into an exhausted stupor until the bell rings.

We have to wait until someone opens the door, but try to untangle ourselves. "I'm going with the crews today. I'll find a way. I'm not letting him control me anymore."

Ezri squeezes my hand.

Miles is standing before us as the door opens. "You can go home tonight." He hesitates. "Look, the kid is fine. Brenda will take good care of her." He doesn't leave. He stammers again, "I think I know how you feel."

Then he walks away, and I remember the Miles who stood by me when I was revealed as a genetic freak. Somewhere that man still exists, buried under layers of guilt.

We stumble towards breakfast, the first few finished and already in line. "They rush you when you're at the end. They don't bother to count," advises Ezri quietly.

I eat, slowly, and slide between several others who won't deign to notice. Neither do the guards as I pass through the gate.

I will not be left alone today. Weyoun will not decide. He has taken all he will be allowed and whatever comes of it, with this act of defiance I take back a little of my life.

End, Part 2, Chapter 11 of Surrender


	12. Surrender Part 2 Chapter 12

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 2 – Necessary Compromises

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consentual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forwarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this story:

Childhood's End, by Sir Arthur C. Clarke

The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Chapter 12

Nobody notices as I leave with the crew today. Ezri is right; the end of the line is rushed and they simply hurry us out.

After spending the last night shut in the storage room I welcome the chance to push back the walls for the day, to leave our cage for a little while when there is still time.

I don't know what to expect, what sort of day they usually have. But anything is better than sitting alone today. I don't think I could stand to see Tessie playing with the other children knowing she could not come to us. I don't know how I'll sleep tonight with her gone.

And the bruises hurt more than I thought. But I'm taking control of my day, at least where I spend it. The others on the crew ignore me, just the same. But being alone in a crowd is better than being alone.

Ezri doesn't talk to me in public, our own private understanding. But she holds me at night and we whisper to each other about the day. I seldom have much to say, and can't imagine what there would be without Tessie to talk about. Somehow, tonight we'll go back there and to a terrible emptiness that no words can convey.

She never tells me any details. I am apprehensive about this, worried I'll be spotted and punished for being here, but cannot bear to spend the day in a room with Tessie so near, and yet so terribly far away.

We're moved out into the corridor, then shunted off to the side to wait. There are a lot of people gathered, and I hope nobody recognizes me. But I'm nervous, especially that they'll notice since the rest fade into the background.

I can't think of the horrible night before. I can't allow myself to remember that Tessie is gone, and the way they stared like I was an insect to be squashed on the floor. In my mind, I'll go back this night and it will be all as it was, all a nightmare that I imagined to be real.

And we'll read. I decide to think about that while they make us wait.

I've gotten intrigued by the saga of Arthur Dent, the books bound into one large volume. It mentions an upcoming forth volume of the trilogy and I only wish somewhere we had a copy. I sit to the back now and don't actively participate in the play of words and emotions, refraining from laughing or even reacting to the jokes. They cannot exclude me, but I will not make it harder on them. It is a silent compromise and we both respect its undeclared rules. I sit where I will not be easily seen and enjoy the story while we mutually ignore each other. But I like listening better than reading it alone. I can pretend I'm not caught in this personal hell for a little while.

Tonight, will I even be allowed to sit with them? Will Ezri, with her choice to stay with me, be excluded as well?

The strange adventures of Arthur Dent are special to me. From the paranoid robot Marvin, forever dedicated to his perennial state of depression, to the perplexed Zaphod-unable to recall why he stole the Heart of Gold in the first place, to Trillion and her panic over losing her two white mice and to Ford, the pragmatist ready with towel in hand for any odd sort of thing I don't know whom I like best. But I see it through Arthur's eyes, reluctant wanderer who has no place to go anymore. As we follow their odd adventures on the barren landscapes of Magrathea, a little drippy with bits of whale, I'm just another avid listener taking a trip in his mind. I pass through the collapsed tunnels and study the curious devices found inside mysterious Magrathea as it awakes from its long sleep, now that the galaxy wide economic recession is done.

It's almost a reminder of home-so much of what we had is duplicated. But it's silly and strange and convoluted too, and we can enjoy the jokes. Sometimes I wish we had bable fish. We are always addressed in Standard. But now it is considered a slave language. I wonder what Arthur would do without his bablefish now that he's gotten used to it.

I'm taken in by the vision of the Earth as a supercomputer, built with the express purpose of explaining exactly what the question was that had been answered with "42, the meaning of Life, the Universe and Everything". If I could go there again, I'd love to look at the fiords of Norway from space and think of the pride Slartibartfast took in his specialty. For part of the evening I was fixed on him, noting that when first discovered Slarti "claimed repeatedly that nothing was true, though he was later discovered to be lying."

If the claim that nothing is true is a lie, then what is the opposite truth? Is everything a lie or nothing false?

I'm still debating that one when we are ordered to go by the guards, moving in a group towards one of the docking areas. I have no idea what to expect of the day or the guards and try very hard to pretend that it is a game, that I must fade into the rest or I lose. But I know the sort of penalty there is for losing. Realand and his foot hurt but they won't be nearly so gentle.

This game is as deadly to lose as the other one I'm playing.

I'm taken in by the docking ring, so oddly familiar, and yet changed too much to be comfortable. Since the surrender things are different. The Dominion is altering the station, removing which they don't use and replacing systems with their own technology. Miles and his people aren't that busy since a lot of the equipment he was maintaining has been replaced.

We aren't allowed anywhere near the Dominion equipment.

A guard sorts us out, assigning us to large bins of things, once ours but now confiscated from our quarters. My bin is full of clothes, all sizes and kinds. I spent the day filling crates, roughly sorting them by size and type. One dress is so beautiful, and I can't help but see Tessie wearing it. But she will never have that kind of clothes. She will never know the bright colors and shiny styles children used to wear. Our children wear smaller versions of the prison clothes we are given.

The sorted clothes go into big crates which are sealed and loaded on a ship. Nobody knows where the ship is going.

A ways down they were sorting toys. I don't know if it is easier to never see Kukalaka again or to have to say good bye. Maybe it would be too much of a reminder of what we've lost.

My day wasn't bad. It was unnerving to be constantly watched, but there was no trouble with the guards. No one was in a hurry and even the Jem'Hadar looked bored.

It was far better than being alone with nothing to do. It was preferable to the pain inside me, the intense need to go to the child we believed would be ours and dare them to take her away.

There is always the dank little room. We know better than to try to touch Tessie or we might be there for many more nights.

Ezri arrives back first, and is sitting, waiting at the tables. Everyone is ignoring her. A little ways away, Brenda is holding Tessie, and she is trying to pull away, trying to get to Ezri.

When I arrive, we retreat to our quarters. All of Tessie's things are gone. It is as if she had never been here. But it's empty. All the light has been banished with her smile.

Ezri is sitting on the bed, just staring at the place Tessie's little bed had been. I can't look at the room, not yet, not knowing what I cost her.

Tessie is alive, upset but just gone from here. But for us it is as if she was dead.

"You should have taken her," I finally admit. "I'm not worth it."

Ezri slumps down, staring at the floor. "She'll have a family. If I took her all she'd have would be me."

"She's lost her mother, and her grandmother is," I pause, thinking of the living death she'd been locked into, "gone. You were her mother. She needed you."

"I couldn't. I love her but she's little. She got used to me, and she can get used to Brenda. Brenda will be a good mother to her. But you need me too."

"They'll ignore you now. You know that. You picked me, the traitor. Sleep with calties, and you know what that makes you."

She runs her hands over my bearded cheeks. Only calties shave now. "I'm not sleeping with those filthy bastards. I'm standing by my husband." There is anger in her eyes, though I'm not sure at whom. "And how do they know what they'd do? Look at Realand. Elaine sabotaged the system, not him. They needed it and he knew it. He didn't want to die, or be locked up until he broke in a little filthy cage. So he did it. He's hardly the one to denounce you."

"But he did. They liked it. If Kira hadn't stopped him he would have killed me." The day is catching up with me. The standing and the work, even if it was hardly difficult, is new to me. The bruises hurt every time I move. I'm exhausted and when she stands I give into temptation. "Maybe she should have let him," I add, trying to find a place that hurts a little less as I lay with my back to the wall.

"Kill the traitor, make them all feel a little better about what they did. Yes, they'd like that. Maybe even Miles." She arranges herself next to me, carefully so as not to push against the sore places. "But what would they do when they need a doctor, when their kid is sick and they don't know what to do or when the guard smacks them too hard and they need some help. They aren't above locking us in that filthy little room, and they'd have let him hurt you a lot more. But not kill you. Not someone they need."

I put my arm around her, "No, but they took her away. That was worse."

We go to sleep, giving into the delayed reality, and later I wake to noise. I rouse Ezri, and she sits up suddenly.

"The cart must be here," she says.

Nobody told us. Nobody really cared enough.

She helps me up, cautiously opening the door. We slowly file out, hurrying down the corridor when we see the full tables, the short line. If we'd slept much longer we would have missed dinner.

We are both outcasts now. But standing at the end of the line, I notice we are not entirely alone.

Realand is sitting near the edge of the tables, Jeffrey next to him. Jackson is on the other side of the room, ignoring them entirely. Jeffrey is hunched over, Realand keeping anyone away. But he has a full bowl, eating slowly as if it hurts to move.

The line stalls because there is nowhere to sit, and we have to stare at the food until enough people move that there is room. Nobody makes space for us.

Ezri and I eat alone, even Realand and the boy gone.

But Miles comes back out, more books in hand. He sits them next to us and I pick one for myself. "Group 6 is going tomorrow. They told them, but not where. They gave me the books since they don't want them lost.

Ezri picks a book for herself, too. But really, neither of us know if there will ever be time to read them. All the important work we were doing is finished. Our luck, and our use, is fading fast. Ezri's whispered comments are right. Things will change soon. All that's left are the finishing touches and Deep Space 9 will be entirely theirs.

They will move us away from here, as they have already done with many of us. When they die, where will we be?

There is nobody but Miles outside, and us, but we don't count. "Did we miss a reading?" I ask.

He doesn't look at us, picking up the remaining books. "No. There was an incident in the loading bay. They shot six people on the spot. I guess after what happened with Ellie and Cassie just having them shoot you is lucky, but, well, nobody really wanted to read.

"Who died?" asks Ezri.

"Brenda's husband. She didn't know until that crew got back. She . . . she isn't taking it well."

"What about Tessie?" Ezri has the most lost look in her eyes I've ever seen.

"Tessie's all she has left now."

More murders. But now we just postpone the reading, give the widow some room. How can I blame them if I'm singled out, ignored? How long will it be before Ezri and I driven away from readings too, or forced into the storage room if we try.

For a night, Tessie had a father again.

We take our books to the room, try to read a little before the lights blink. But I hurt too much, and she can't concentrate.

As "night" arrives, she slides into bed next to me. "Was today typical? The sorting and all that?" I ask.

She doesn't answer at first. "You never know."

"I'm going again tomorrow. If they stop me, it happens, but I've got to try."

"You won't have many more chances," mumbles Ezri, succumbing to exhaustion. "There aren't too many of us left."

She's asleep. I just stare at the walls and door, putting the books carefully aside before they fall. Somehow, this will end. The Founders will die and the end will come for everything *he* believes. But it will be months, and months are a long time to wait now. Now, I can only hope we'll be alive to see that day.

o0o

My absence yesterday must have been noted. While the others ignore me as usual when I slip into the line, the guards yank me out and I am casually tossed flat on my back. I'm sure I saw Realand smirking when I slowly dragged myself up, his foot's work still quite notable. Most of the rest still ignored me, or paid more attention to the guards who started them moving out the door about then.

The Jem'Hadar discipline me for yesterday in front of the children. It hurts far more, I suspect, than they know, adding their fists and feet on top of Realands kicks. But I don't let them see, don't make a sound, and when they are done they let me pull myself off the floor and eventually, slowly, drag myself out of their way. Shaky and dizzy, I pull myself up to one of the benches, sitting uncomfortably on a hard seat. I'm gruffly warned to stay in view. Others will be there for me in a little while.

I'm had enough discipline so I sit as ordered. I draw a few curious glances from the children and the two women. I'd like to think they didn't enjoy the show. But I'm not entirely sure of that.

I ignore all of them. Debating which is worse, the waves of pain from the beating or the anticipation of what Weyoun wants, I try not to fidget. But it's taking them so long. It's almost a relief when my escort eventually arrives. Better to get it over and not have to pretend not to notice the staring. As the gate creaks open, I drag my aching body up and follow the guards. I still wish I'd been allowed to go with the others, or would even prefer to stay alone in my little room with the walls shrinking around me. Special trips like this are always very bad news.

As I stumble after them, determined not to show how bad I'm hurting, it occurs to me that I realize that I haven't been in this part of the station for only a little while and it already looks very different. The light is brighter. The walls are not so dark. It lacks the odd Cardassian decorations we left in place. It is simple and utilitarian, almost like the cookie cutter approach Starfleet stations used to use.

Then we turn down a corridor which requires special access codes to enter. There are intermittent gates. Is everything in their station structured like a prison?

I realize I used to live very near here, resisting the urge to look around for my old quarters. It's so odd, for there is a familiar feeling here that is gone in most of the station. Except for the security checks, it is identical.

We stop before a door, equipped with both a standard lock and a force field. The guards enter some sort of code and it is opened. I'm ushered inside as the force field drops and reforms. The guard stays outside.

It's basic, an alcove for a bedroom, a couch and desk, looking no different than standard quarters had looked. But there is a curiosity about it. The replicator is still there. And there is a window.

I can't keep from staring out the window. It's been a long time since I saw anything but solid walls. There are a lot of ships docked, but obviously not the heavy traffic I'd seen before.

Outside, the wormhole opens as three ships approach. It used to be beautiful, a flower opening is a desert. Then came the Dominion and the war and . . . this. I can't help but wonder what's inside the ships. Is that where we will go when they are done with us here?

There's a rustling sound from the bedroom, but I can't tear my eyes from the wormhole. I hear him before I see him.

"Doctor, I was told you wanted to see me."

Odo walks into the room.

I can't think of anything to say. We wanted to confirm the cure had worked and be sure Odo wouldn't be infected with the new disease. We needed to get a feel for Odo's state of mind, to see if he might cooperate when the time came. But we were never allowed to see him.

Now, Odo stands before me and I force myself to evaluate his condition. He isn't the same. There is a submerged anger in his gaze that is all to easy to recognize and his manner is rather cold.

I assume he's heard about me too.

But something is wrong. There is a hint of wildness in his eyes, and he's *standing* wrong. The last time I'd seen him, he was "wearing" his Bajoran uniform. Now, he's dressed in casual civilian clothes. They look rumpled. I'm suddenly very worried about our future.

But I have gotten good at covering my reactions to things. "I asked to see you before, but they said no."

"They were busy at the time." His tone is mocking, very much the Odo I knew, but spiced with a deep sense of bitterness as well. He walks over to the window and deliberately turns away.

A small worm of worry grows larger. Odo is hiding something. His clothes are rumpled. He moves in a different way. He moved like that when . . .

No. He is vital to our plan, to averting disaster. But it makes sense they would punish him the same way they had before. I force myself to keep my thoughts to myself.

"So was I." I assume he knows, but decide to let him confirm it.

"I heard. You're quite a hero, Doctor. Your vaccine has been shipped back to the home planet by now." His tone is mocking, full of the sarcasm I'm used to in Odo. But then he turns around, and I can tell. Something about his face is . . . wrong.

I stare at him for a moment, my aches and bruises forgotten. He has fine lines of stress in his face.

"I couldn't let them kill all my friends." I wonder if Odo will accept that explanation. I have my doubts.

His expression is bitter. "I understand exactly how you feel, Doctor. I finally gave myself up for your sakes."

I remember how angry I'd been at him. Looking at him now-bitter, restless and frustrated in a way I can understand, it is hard to feel that way. He paces back and forth. I haven't moved from where I stand. There are too many ghosts here.

"We haven't seen any Breen since the bombing." I have to know what he did.

"It wasn't just the bombing. They'd grown to distrust their allies. When their commander was killed it was the last straw." His tone is one of defiance and satisfaction. He sighs, "I had hoped it would make more of a difference."

I realize that Odo is *tired*. Odo should not look tired, not like we do. But he clearly was. The worm of worry is growing bigger. I watch him as he moves, trying to decide, wishing I wasn't so certain.

"Are you hungry?" asks Odo. "I am lucky to have a replicator." He walks to the machine. "Would you like scones?"

He orders scones and tarkalian tea. The dish materializes and I can't tear my eyes off of the food. I finally sit down, taking the dish from Odo and take my first bite.

Everything-the worry, the hard months, the devastating defeat-vanish under the spell of the sweet, delicate flavor. The tea brings back too many memories, and yet I drink it with relish.

Then the delight utterly vanishes. Odo says, "I've gotten to like them myself."

I watch as he orders a plate with a tangy Bajoran tea. He takes his meal and sits at the table. He begins to eat.

We *need* Odo to stop the Jem'Hadar, to order them to spare us. Without Odo, when all the sick changelings die we will be in the way, just part of dead from the grief-borne massacre to come. But Odo must be a changeling. Changelings do not eat scones for lunch. Their clothes are not rumpled. They do not have stress lines on their faces. I stare at him, unable to stop myself.

Odo notices, and nods. "I was made into a solid again as punishment. I took your side so I should live like you. Considering what my people have done I am not especially sorry."

The monsters would die, but we might die with them now. "Kira didn't mention it," I say.

Or doesn't know. "I've only seen her a few times," says Odo. "Not since . . . "

It is going to be a very long six months, while we wait for them to start dying, wondering if we should hide or kill them. But under the circumstances, how do we do either?

"She said she'd seen you," I say, trying to push away the dread. "But that was a while ago."

He almost smiles. "I'm told I'll be going with you when you're relocated. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell Kira."

So it will be soon. I guess that Odo hears more than we do. But despite the quarters and the replicator he's still their prisoner. He can't leave without having them open the door.

"What news have you heard?" he asks carefully.

"The Federation surrendered," I say. "There are a lot of rumors about it but that's all we know."

Odo looks at me sadly. "Your parents were on Earth. I'm sorry, Doctor, but they are dead. I rather liked them."

I stare at him. We all knew. Most of us believed it to some degree. But Odo must know the full truth. "What did they do?" I almost whisper.

He takes a deep breath, and there is anger there. "The survivors were killed by the Jem'Hadar within a day," he says. "The buildings were flattened. Then the planet was left with nothing alive to see the fires." He pauses, looking out the window. "The same happened to the Klingons. The Romulans were merely enslaved but they did surrender early."

He abandons his food, and stands, looking out the window. "As I said, I am quite content to live the rest of my life as a solid."

It is worse when it's not rumor. You can deny a rumor. I can not find anything to say. Odo looks at me, "My people-those who were my people-are very final."

I'm too stunned to reply. I wish I could tell him his people will soon meet the same fate as the people of Earth. I want him to know about our revenge.

Perhaps he'll be with us when they die. Would the Jem'Hadar, in some ancestral memory, still honor him for what he had been? Or would he be just another solid to slaughter?

"Please, Doctor, tell Kira I miss her," he says. His tone is soft, resigned.

"I will," I reply, still too numb to think. How will I tell the others?

The conversation is ended when the door is abruptly opened and I'm ordered to go. I notice the Jem'Hadar does not look at Odo when he arrives. Odo just stares out the window.

I follow my guard down the corridor, past the security gate and into the main command area. I'm guided into an office where shops had been and discover Weyoun waiting. I can't look at him.

"Did you enjoy your visit to Odo?" he asks, as if he's done me a great favor.

I say nothing. I continue to look away from him. I visualize the violet eyes staring vacantly at nothing and the garish clothes soaked with his own blood as the Jem'Hadar rampage through the station.

"You did well with the vaccine. Now we have other things for you to do." I realize he expects my cooperation this time. I feel the bile rising in my throat.

I see my parents bodies soaked in blood, tossed into a heap. I see the places I'd lived turned to flame. I see the Alamo burning bright, as well as all the places that time had somehow spared so we might remember. I see my home with all our history turned to ashes. I will do nothing more for them, no matter what they demand or what they threaten.

I have already gotten my revenge.

"I will never work for you again," I say, my voice thick with hatred and revulsion.

"That would be unfortunate. Prisoners housed on this station will be deported soon. I would think you would prefer to stay here with your wife."

There are two Jem'Hadar guards nearby. I wonder if I could get one of their guns before they kill me, if I could kill Weyoun first.

I say nothing. I do not look at him.

I hear the guards marching towards me, but do not move. Something hard hits me in the back of the knees, and I'm knocked on the floor. One holds my arms behind me while I'm kicked in the stomach by the other.

It hurts but I don't care if they kill me. I won't work for murderers. I'm shoved forward suddenly, and my head hits the floor very hard.

Now, everything is blurry and distant. I let them do what they want. No matter how bad they hurt me it won't change my mind. The last thing I remember is my head smashing against the floor one last time, harder this time. Then I am consumed by the dark.

o0o

There is nothing but blackness, warm and soft and safe. But now it's fading, transforming itself into a bright fog. The fierce glow hurts too much and I try to flee back to the safe, unknowing blackness but it is gone.

The voices drift in from the grey, bright, painful, pounding fog.

"I think he's awake," says Ezri.

Her voice is very distant, hard to make out it's so faint. Still, I hold onto the words. I don't move for an eternity because of the pain, barely tolerable if I stay still. My stomach is already churning and I won't tempt fate. I cling to the last vestiges of distant darkness, between sleep and waking, but am finally forced awake by the pain and the nausea. I drift in the bright haze, listening to the sounds around me. I don't know where I am or how I got here. Why is Ezri here? Despite the pain, I must know. I force my eyes to open, but everything is fuzzy. Still, I can decipher enough details to be sure. I close my eyes, trying to shut out all the brightness. My head is locked in waves of dizziness and I have no desire to move. My stomach rebels at the slightest movement.

Our quarters . . . I don't remember being brought back here. I try to make some sense of things. The Jem'Hadar took me away. I saw Odo, then . . . . But after that it's mostly a blank filled with fear. I can feel the bruises. I can remember hitting my head on the floor. But after that?

"He opened his eyes." A hand takes mine, checking my pulse. "Open your eyes, Doctor." I recognize the voice. Sloan is here? I have vague memories of him being there, before . . . where? Sloan must have carried me. But it doesn't figure. I know the rules. If you can't walk back to your group, you don't go at all.

Something terrible happened, something so bad I don't want to remember any of it. Now and then are little flashes of memory, little glimpses of hell, but I can make no sense of them.

He wants to know if I'll live, if my eyes focus, if the head injury is so bad I won't survive it. I want to know too. Carefully, painfully, I open my eyes, just long enough for them to look. The light is too bright and I shut them quickly, pulling my arm over my face.

"He's focusing. His pupils aren't dilated. He's ok so far." So I'll live. I'll have to remember now. I don't want to remember. Then more of Sloan. But he sounds different, hurting too much. "If we're lucky it's just a bad concussion."

Why is Ezri so . . . accepting of Sloan? She was there, saw him that night when Sisko found us on the machine. Sloan died. She'd been given some explanation by Sisko, but it's wrong she isn't even curious about him. Now, Miles, he would guess.

A sensation, a flash of blood and hell passes through me.

And Sloan . . . Sloan wouldn't expect them to even know him and he isn't reacting either.

Trying to solve the mystery takes my mind off the repeated battering and the throbbing inside my head. Nothing helps the churning inside my belly. If I stay still I can keep it down. I can't imagine my body forcing me to sit up or drown in my own vomit.

I'm trying to make some sense of this and the meaning of the unknown flashes of nightmare that come, when pain drives away everything.

Ezri puts her hand on my shoulder, and I involuntarily cringe. It was slammed hard against the floor too many times. I remember that part. I have a vague memory of hitting a wall. The last thing I can recall with any clarity is Weyoun's men thumping my head against the floor, but there must have been much more. Why can't I remember? Do I even want to? Is it the memory of nearly being beaten to death, or something else, something worse . . .

She touches me again, pressing a little harder this time. The bruising is very deep and it hurts so bad I try to pull away. "Julian, you've got to stay awake. You have a bad concussion. I don't want you going into a coma."

I don't know what I want. All I can remember is the first part, when Weyoun had his guards take me down. But that was only the beginning. The rest is fragments of memory, and glimpses of horror. I wonder if they made me stay conscious most of the time. I don't know if I want to make sense of the flashes that come without warning.

If I could I'd just go back to the blackness and stay there forever.

Sloan takes my hand. I can tell his from Ezri's smaller one. He pulls me out of my protective ball. The pain is terrible, and my head is pounding in waves of agony. But it helps keep my mind off the cauldron inside my stomach. "Doctor," he says. I don't want to respond. It hurts to move and I want to just fade back to wherever I was. "Doctor, count for me. Start at one."

He's not going to leave me alone if I don't cooperate. "One," I whisper. It sounds like a scream inside my head.

"Good. Keep going." This from Ezri.

"Two." I take as deep a breath as I dare, but the pain . . . "Three," I whisper/shout. The pounding in my head is reaching a crescendo, and I can't stand it. "No more. Too loud." I clench my teeth to keep them quiet.

Something is terribly wrong, more than the beating I'd received. Ezri's voice is dragging, and even Sloan sounds very bitter and shaky. Weyoun never got a chance to explain what I was to do. Is that a part of the missing pieces of memory?

They let me be and start a quiet conversation. I don't want to listen, want nothing louder than silence but I'm too curious to shut it out. "What did they want?" she asks Sloan. Her voice is so dull, so stunned.

I know I was taken from here. I got to see Odo and was brought before Weyoun. When I said no they smashed my head against the floor. The rest is gone. But I have this terrible feeling that Ezri and Sloan were both a part of it.

"There was a new project. Something to do with genetic engineering. I refused to work on it. He'd already refused." But there is something scary about the way Sloan's voice is so hesitant and weak.

There are images of things in my head, terrible things-flashing blades, spilling blood. I shudder at the memory. Something is very wrong if we are back here instead of dead after refusing their orders.

And why is Sloan here?

There was so much blood. The Jem'Hadar used their baronets. They hacked him open.

Why isn't Miles here to see how I'm doing? He'd not stay away. Unless . . . A quiet scream builds in my mind, built of agony and indescribable horror. Nooooo . . .

It ceases suddenly. The thought is so calm, so simple to think, and all the feeling disappears. We are alive because Weyoun wants us to be. But we were still punished. They killed substitutes instead.

"They were all ignoring him before. Maybe now they'll let it up." I must be in shock. Ezri sounds like she and Sloan are as well.

Suddenly, I know why. She was there. They took her along with the others, and held a knife at her throat. I can see it as if it was a holographic play I was watching, somehow far removed from the original. I can see her eyes go wide with terror, see her body so still it is unnatural. I can hear my own breathing as they decide who to kill.

The bastards didn't kill her. I can't see Keiko, but I know she's there. I remember the intense relief when the Jem'Hadar shot my best friend's wife instead of my own. I'll always remember that moment. I crumple, with a huge sob of grief from deep inside my soul.

Bastards. Monsters. I don't care what happens in six months as long as they all die. It doesn't matter much to me right now if the Jem'Hadar go on a rampage. As long as the monsters who killed my best friend are dead.

I hope they cut Weyoun into little pieces. It's starting to come clear. I was tied, chained against the wall. I couldn't go to them. They lived for a little while before they bled to death.

Molly and Yoshi are orphans now. Someone's going to have to care for them. At least they didn't have to see the way their parents died.

I am lost in the blood and horror and terror of the moment. It will live with me forever. I stare at the walls of this grimy room, wishing I'd gone to Cardassia and died there.

My head still hurts too much to move, but my mouth is very dry. "Water?" I whisper in a roar.

"Try the broth. It's better for you." Ezri gently lifts my head a little and I nearly black out. I force my mouth to open, my teeth to unclinch. I let her feed me. It is all I can do to stay conscious.

There must be cuts inside my mouth. It stings when I swallow. I think I've lost a few teeth. I can taste blood. I take as much of the broth as I can before I can't stand to have my head up.

I try to stay awake. I know I should. But as she gently eases my head to the pillow and the blankets are folded on top of me, the blackness comes again and everything else fades.

o0o

"Eat," says Kira. "I know you don't want to but do it anyway."

I ignore her, feigning sleep. I am never left alone and she is my current watcher. I suppose I should count the company as lucky. My head still pounds and the bruises have only faded a little, but at least the nausea is mostly gone. I can eat more now. I just don't want to. It's past the critical time from my head injuries. I won't die on them from internal bleeding or a blood clot. I can sleep without danger. They are worried about the wounds so deep inside that nothing will heal. The memories are too fresh and raw and painful now. My watchers are keeping me company to keep me alive.

They needn't worry. Weyoun made sure my physical injuries were non-fatal, and the lack of medical care only insures more pain. I still don't have the strength to stand and need help feeding myself. But most of all I can't bear the thought of being alone, not yet. With someone here there are little noises, occasional conversation, and I can keep the memories at bay. I do not know how to deal with them and push them all away.

I'm lucky. For some reason I'm being allowed to recover instead of being dragged into a cell to die. But it is certain that our status has changed. Nobody knows how long it will be until we're moved to one of those cargo holds below. Certainly, the relative luxury of this place won't last much longer. But Weyoun wants me alive. Down below, I might die of my injuries. So we have a little time left before we lose everything.

Sloan is missing. Shortly after I passed out, he was taken by the Jem'Hadar for further questioning. He saved me from a terrible decision. I loathed him once, but no longer. I will miss him. I don't expect him to come back.

Not everybody is as lucky as I am. Most of the victims get dumped in an isolation cell to survive or not. If you call this luck.

I should be dead. We aren't allowed to say no. I had a chance to pick comfort and privilege over misery. I failed their test. I was punished, made to watch the murder of my friends. Is that luck?

My mind is drifting, finding places where this nightmare does not exist. There is a sound by the door, and I look up expectantly. I know Miles is dead. I saw them hack him open and watched as he bled to death. But it's not real.

I half expect him to walk in the door.

I've heard about this from others. I know all the clinical reasons why we deny death. But I did not remember that they were gone after I woke the second time. It fell to Kira to tell me, and I've been trying to make sense of it ever since.

I know about the stages of grief. I've referred people to counselors who couldn't handle it. I've held friends who finally faced the crushing realization that a loved one was gone. I should know better.

Except it doesn't help.

Ezri can't help me. She'd been standing next to Keiko as my friend's wife was shot. Miles dying body lay in a pool of blood next to her as he died from his gruesome wounds. Spattered with his blood, a blade was held to her throat, with every reason to believe she was next.

She is as much the walking wounded as I am. She hardly says a word when she's here. She isn't Ezri or Jadzia or any of the others, just numb and lost. When Kira is here, she is spending all her time with the now orphaned children.

Did I kill them, not just Miles and Keiko, but the others? They shot others too. I didn't even remember them at first. The memories of their deaths are still a jumble of images and sounds, pain and nothingness. I remember Ralph Townsend as he faced death, not resigned, not even scared, but as if it was a release from his own personal hell. And then there was Cindy's husband Justin, his child recently born, holding onto life with everything he had.

If there is anything I can do to help Cindy I will. I know Ralph wanted to die, but Justin didn't. After he died it hurt too much to feel. All I could see was Alessa and how he'd never know how she grew. After that I stopped feeling anything at all.

I never even asked what they wanted me to do. Weyoun never said. I was too stunned by Odo's detailed story of Earth's fate to get past the rage and grief that filled my being.

Sloan refused them too. A vague memory of his beaten body being dragged in, people he knew being sacrificed as a price is there, without any real detail. Somehow, I expected him to go along, to pull another miracle escape from the inevitable fate that awaits both of us. He knew how to play the game, to survive. Or perhaps he isn't the same man who killed and tortured to save the ideals of the Federation. Perhaps he just had enough of the lies.

Because this time, this war, we *lost*. It is only now sinking in that we must live by their rules now, that there is to be no liberation. Have we all started to figure in the price of survival? For some, is it too high a cost?

I know Weyoun hasn't given up yet. Others paid in my stead this time. Next time, will I do the same, knowing the cost, or will that have become simply too much to pay? Will the Vorta find someone else more easily turned and let me go? Would it have hurt to pretend cooperation this time, hoping for some way out except death or ownership? I have to know if Miles can forgive me for letting him die.

Kira hasn't spoken for a long time. She keeps gazing at the door, left half open, and is lost in her own thoughts. Occasionally I brave the always present bright light to look at her, more defeated than I've ever seen her before, and listen as she shuffles around in the chair. I wonder how much harder it is if you've lived without freedom to have it taken away.

Maybe we understand each other better than I'd like.

I haven't expressed any interest in food, and she is standing now, holding the bowl in her hands. "Julian, you have to eat." She'll poke me in the arm, just enough to get my attention, if I don't try a little. My shoulder still hurts to move and I'd rather not have it disturbed.

My head hurts-more like pounds-compounded by the lights. I'm not hungry and my bowl is cold. I want to curl up and go somewhere else. The spoon slips and she picks it up.

"Eat, Julian. You owe it to them." She is standing over me, spoon in hand, ready to feed me herself if I don't eat.

Pain or not, I decide to feed myself this time. Weyoun has limited patience. It would be humiliating to have to be carried out of here. I take the spoon from her. The gruel is too lumpy when it's cold. The broth has an odd taste. But I take a few bites.

After all, it's all there will be today. We have had rations cut by half. We all understand now. It is unthinkable to waste food.

I manage a few bites, growing more dizzy and my head pounding too much to hold it up. "I can't . . . "

It isn't just the headache, or the dizziness, or even the pain that touches every part of me. It's the memories. I always sat with Miles for meals, at least before the cure. Even then, he often let me be near. My parents and Garak are dead too, executed by the same murderers, but they were far away when they died. He was here. I was used to him being around. Even when we didn't really talk anymore, just being there would remind us to not give up. Now that he's gone and I'm caught in a trap with no way out but death or willing collaboration, who keeps me from giving up now?

For Miles it's all over. Nobody can hurt him now. But how will it feel to eat dinner alone, probably with his children at my side, or to read a book he traded back especially because we liked it so much? Even after I became invisible to them, he still left books and passed messages to me now and then.

I feel alone now.

"That's good enough for now. We'll save the rest," She takes the bowl, propped carefully in front of me. She gently sits it on the table. I collapse on the pillow, rolling on my side where the bruises are not so bad and try to cover my eyes.

If we could, at least, turn off the lights, even dim them a little . . . They are not even turning them down at night anymore. We aren't allowed even a little darkness.

That kind of darkness . . . How can we exist in a place so brightly lit and so mired in darkness at the same time?

She is restless, and I don't want her to go. I wonder what Odo will do if he's deported with us. Perhaps he will be allowed to be with her again as a slave. I did promise to tell her. Painfully, I roll over a little, leaving my eyes closed. I can hear her turn towards me. "Odo said to tell you he misses you," I say.

I open my eyes a little. She is sitting very still, making no noise at all. "How is he?" she asks, not hiding the worry.

"Well enough," I say, wondering if I should tell her, "Considering."

"Considering what?"

"He's been changed to a solid again," I say, looking at her, braving the bright light to open my eyes. "He helps us, he lives like us. When we're deported, he goes with us."

She says nothing. Perhaps she understands better than I do what it cost Odo to give up his people. "Did he tell you anything else?" she asks quietly.

I take a deep breath. It makes it too real to put it into words. "They destroyed the Klingon homeworld. No survivors." I pause. It's so hard to say it. "Weyoun makes sure he's given all the details. And Earth, they did the same. They're all dead."

I just want to close my eyes and go away. Saying the words makes it too real.

She is stunned. I wonder if she's thinking of Bajor, what will come of it if its people should fight back as hard as they did against the Cardassians, if any of them will survive the systematic murder of Dominion rule. "I'm sorry," she finally says, stumbling over the words. "I'll tell them."

At least I'm spared that. I can tell them the details later when I allow myself to think of them. If I can.

She is looking at me, deeply grieved. "We have to move Ezri and the kids back here. We're trying to make some space for the others." Her voice is very quiet, haunted by too many memories and fears.

"How many?" I ask.

"Sloan's people. He's still being held."

I know why it's been so noisy. After she tells them it will be very quiet.

And the children . . . I guess I owe it to Miles. I didn't want children before Tessie, and the painful way she was torn away reminds me of why. But I killed their parents. And Ezri has already decided. "I'll be all right." She knows it's a lie but all right is relative now. "How's Ezri?"

"She'll manage." Kira moves closer, taking my hand, her eyes reflecting a deep sadness. "She needs you, and so do the kids. The best thing you can do is be a family. Be each other's strength."

"She was . . . having a hard time of it before," I say, trying to find a way to keep the details away.

Kira pulls the chair closer. The light is making my head pound and I close my eyes. I can hear the sadness now. "She's . . . trying," says Kira. "She's coping the best she can." Her voice changes, softens a little. "She has blood all over her. What happened?"

I want to shut it out, make all the flashes of nightmare vanish. I never want to remember them again. "They were going to kill her," I mutter to myself, turning away.

"With the rest, what happened?" she insists. "Julian, it will only get worse if you don't talk about it. I don't think she can. You have to be strong for her. Tell me what they did."

What a strange reversal of roles, I think. Kira is the counselor now. But her experience comes from something other than Starfleet medical.

She is right. I've told others the same thing. I've forced them to go for counseling by using my rank and position to order them into it. But knowing doesn't help. I still don't want to remember.

"Not . . . yet," I plead.

"No," she says. "Now. It will just get harder if you wait." She turns away. I hear the chair squeak, peak at her rigid posture as if she's regaining control. "You'll never forget it, but the nightmares are easier if you talk about it."

I don't want to ask. I never ask Ezri about the Breen and their prods. I hesitate, but force out the words.

"I was taken to this room," I whisper. "They had Miles there, and Keiko and others. They had them lined up against a wall, hands tied in front. Weyoun said I'd work with them or be sorry. Then they shot the first one, Ralph. He looked . . . happy, glad to die. Then another, Justin this time."

I'm shaking. It's too real. I have to stop. I can't make myself remember.

"He didn't want to die," she says.

I close my eyes, try to shut out the images that now come unbidden. "They had to drag him, made him stand with a rifle at his head in the middle of the room. He kept looking at me with this silent plea. All I could think of was Alessa's birth, how proud he'd been. Weyoun demanded I agree, or see him die."

"Go on," she prompts, but it isn't necessary anymore. I can't stop the words now.

"I couldn't. I kept thinking of how they probably killed my parents, how everybody I knew there had been murdered by them. I couldn't ever work for someone like that. But he was still looking at me, pleading, when they shot him in the stomach." I pause. "He screamed, but I don't know if it was just to me or the rest. He was still alive then. Weyoun ordered him dragged to the side and asked me if he should die now or later. He would be put in a holding cell to bleed to death if I chose. Or finished off then. I couldn't see his face to know. But he might have lived a long time in that cell, taken a long time to die in agony. I said to end it then."

She can see it wasn't as easy as that. "How'd he die?" she asks, insisting as I pull away from her.

"They used bayonets. They hacked him up slow. This time the screams were very real. He took a long time to die and I had to watch."

She touches me and I jerk away. "You didn't stab him. They killed him, not you."

"I should have known he'd do it," I mutter, going quiet on her, refusing to look.

"The rest?" she asks.

"They just shot them. In the head. I didn't care anymore."

She sounds calm, but I can hear the emotional drain in her voice. "What about Sloan?" she asks.

"They demanded he do it if I wouldn't, after he'd quit on me, the first ones, before Miles. He . . . refused. But the bastard really wanted me." The image is forming in my mind, Keiko and Ezri, standing side by side, very still as the guards aim their rifles.

How can I tell her I was glad they killed Keiko instead? Miles was kneeling on the floor, watching from the center of the bloody room. When she died, when the rifle fired, he screamed out her name. I was only half-aware of things, but I *remember* the way I was so relieved that it hadn't been Ezri, that they'd murdered my best friends wife instead.

I realize I'm crying. She holds my hand. "Keep going," she says. "It hurts, but you can't bury it."

"The guards dragged Miles closer, and when he tried to get to Keiko they knocked him down, started to kick him hard. I thought they might kill him that way, but they dragged him up then, made him kneel and tied his hands behind him to this pole."

I stare at the scene in my head, describing it in the dull tones of shock, how they'd slashed him open with the baronets, kept hacking until his organs were spilling out and he was surrounded by a puddle of blood. Then they released his hands and he fell face down, eyes still open. They let him bleed to death then, lying in a wet sea of red.

She puts her hands around mine, and I realize I'm digging my nails into my palm so hard I'm making it bleed. The blood just makes the vision of my friend's mutilated body all the more real.

"Did he ask you first, like with Justin?" She is fighting her own battle to keep her voice even, but I can feel her hands shaking.

I see it all very clearly. "I got one last chance to cooperate. I was so . . . full of rage over what they'd done I couldn't think straight, couldn't *feel* anything." The tears grow hard, and I start shaking as I begin to sob. "I let them kill him. I couldn't keep myself from watching. It wasn't real. He was lying in this puddle of blood with . . . with his insides spilling out and it wasn't real."

I can't say anymore. I can't tell her how they dragged Sloan up to look, demanding his cooperation again. I can't talk about how I tried to kill myself by hitting my head against the wall, but all I succeeded in doing was making everything so vague it drifted by the rest of the ordeal.

She holds me as we grieve.

I say good bye to my friends, not just Miles but Garak and my parents and all the others who are gone now.

But especially to Miles. It will be so hard to face this without the quiet, steady support he always shared.

Finally, after a long time, she says, quite softly, "Ezri is going to need you. Be her anchor. You can't . . . fix things for her. She has to do that. But she needs someone steady to depend on. That's you."

She would know. She's been here before. I can't bear what they've done to Ezri, holding the bloody bayonet against her throat, giving me one last chance, one last option I knew I could never accept. The Jem'Hadar had pressed it hard, and she'd fainted and at first there was so much blood everywhere I didn't know she'd only passed out, that they hadn't cut her. I can't cope with the way I'd been played with, torn apart inside. I'm so empty inside. That is far worse than the beating that finished the day, before Sloan and I had been sent back to stand as more examples, like Realand before.

I still hate the man, can never forgive him, but understand his bitterness. I can't face anyone now, not even Ezri.

No matter what happens, it will only be a little less bad after they die.

"I'll try," I say. But I can't deal with it now. "I want to sleep. My head hurts."

"It's still early," she says, looking at the lights, probably out of habit. "Try to sleep. I'll check on you later."

She moves towards the door, but pauses. "Remember," she says, "keep believing."

I just wish I knew how.

o0o

An utterly silent gloom has descended on this place. Kira told them the news earlier today and the only sound is the occasional movement of bodies, now and then a sob as reality sinks in. But mostly all there is is absolute quiet.

When we were divided up, they split us by species. Except for spouses like Ezri and the occasional "special" prisoner like Kira, almost everyone here is human. Some had family or friends on Earth, now undeniable gone. But for everyone it is an end of things. It is the moment when the last of the family elders have passed and all that is left is shared memories. It is the turning point when home has ceased, blown away in the winds of time. It is the end of childhood. We face the future with the same numbness that filled the last generation after the children had gone, in that time before their evolution destroyed the rest. What reason is there to survive but revenge? Or perhaps, just surviving is a kind of revenge in itself.

We knew they killed all the Cardassians. There are more of us, scattered everywhere. When the Founders die what is to become of us? Will we reclaim our ruined home, like the Bajorans have tried to do, remaking the surface but never the spirit? Will we be like the Skrreeans and find our home claimed by someone else when we try to return? Will we cease to exist as a people at all and be the unwanted interlopers in everyone else's world?

I can't deal with that anymore than I can deal with Miles.

My shoulder hurts; Ezri is asleep and pressing close. She's having a nightmare and, pain or not, I put my arm around her. The children are curled together in a makeshift bed on the floor, under the table. At least they are shaded from the bright light. I think since . . . since things changed the lights are brighter too. We didn't have to do that with Tessie when we had "night", but I hope Brenda is finding a way to make some shade for her. I wish I could feel for her but her own loss has somehow become just a part of the general feeling of grief that has taken everyone now.

We still love Tessie, miss her, but Brenda has no one else now. And Molly and Yoshi are alone. Now, we make family out of what's left.

The lights hurt my eyes and I can't see very well yet, my vision still mostly a blur, thought it's improving daily.

I can't sleep. My head still aches with a dull roar. The hours go by so slowly. Despite the pain it's good to hold her, and I find myself slipping away.

Something is wrong. It's dark, or very dim. Ezri is next to me and the children snuggled together. Except for the random sounds of the others sleeping it is silent. But I look up and Miles is standing in the doorway.

He's gazing at the children. "Take care of them. At least they weren't on Earth with their grandparents."

I look up at him, dressed in the same clothes we're given but now they aren't soaked in blood. "We'll protect them," I say.

"You can't," he says. "Just keep them alive. Let Kira help. She understands." He looks at Ezri and I. "Just love them. Do the best you can. If it doesn't work out like we'd like it's okay."

He looks lost and depressed and broken. I sit up a little, and he looks directly at me. "I had to refuse," I tell him. "Odo just told me about Earth. I couldn't stand the thought of touching anything of theirs."

He grows sad. "I know. It was the right thing to do."

"Was it?" I ask. "I'd rather be dead than know seven people died for me."

"You and Sloan," he says. "Remember, Julian," he adds, moving closer. He shimmers a little in the dark. "Don't give up hope. Believe it will end." He turns, looking at his children. "One day it will. Get them through the bad part alive. That's all I ask."

I didn't want children. I didn't want to see them cry because they are hungry. I didn't want to watch them hide when the Jem'Hadar come near. I didn't want to watch them harden as their childhoods were stolen away. I didn't want them to look forward to nothing but a life ordered by someone else. But I wanted Tessie. And I owe it to Miles.

"I will," I say, knowing it limits my options the next time, when Weyoun or another tyrant uses them as the threat. "I promise."

He is fading. The darkness is growing brighter, as bright as our cage. He smiles. "Good bye," he says.

I watch the place he'd been. Suddenly Molly wakes, and poking her head out of the blanket starts to cry. "Daddy, don't go away," she screams. Then she starts to sob. Ezri has awakened and picks her up, rocking her gently.

I keep staring at the space where Miles had been, wondering what awaits us, wondering how bad it will be. Miles does not expect any of the innocence to survive, but if we keep them alive somehow they'll have a chance at freedom. It won't take decades. But it will be long enough, hard enough.

Kira knows too. Has Sisko told her, in his own way, that there will be an end? Would a Prophet still care about us?

I put my arm around Ezri. "She had a bad dream," she says.

I don't tell her. She'll love them and cherish them. She will not have them torn away like Tessie, Ezri is already showing small signs of the ferocious beast with a cub, her attention totally devoted to Molly. That is what matters. "Does she understand?" I ask Ezri.

"I think she does now," she says, softly, and I can tell that she's crying too. "I promised Miles we'd take care of them before he died," she says. She closes her eyes. "He was alive. All bloody but alive. I could hear him breathing. He stopped right after I promised."

A flash of blood and terror and pain fills me, and I am there again. I see him collapsed in a pool of his own blood, Ezri held so close. We have both made our pact with his soul. I can push away the image, the unnatural brightness of this dull room fading back into view. Painfully, I put my arm around both of them.

Hold onto what you have and let it be enough.

Molly finally falls asleep and is put back with her brother. She rolls next to him and he puts his arms around her. I watch as the blanket covers them. Ezri sits next to me. "I was worried about her," she says.

She is shaking. "I thought they'd killed you," I say.

She collapses onto me. "I thought they would to."

I hold her. It hurts, but I don't care. She buries her head in my arms. I can feel the silent tears as she finally lets out the agony she's kept to herself. Slowly, she starts to relax and the shaking stops. I slide us back into bed, and eventually we both fall asleep.

Somehow, we'll get through this. The Founders will die, and eventually we'll be free. But I'm afraid. We can kill the monsters, but nothing will restore what was taken.

Nothing, not even the death of the last of the changelings and their custom-made servants will ever make up for that.

End, Part 2, Chapter 12 of Surrender


	13. Surrender Part 2 Chapter 13

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 2 – Necessary Compromises

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are described/quoted in this story:

The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams

Chapter 13

For the first time in a lifetime, I am alone. Ezri and the children are outside, allowing them a chance to play. The new people from Sloan's group have brought other children and they have already found new friends.

I'm not ready to go there yet, to look at the faces of the survivors. I'm not prepared to see the silent grief of the widows, or the children who are still asking why daddy is gone. I just can't face the price I paid quite yet.

I'm not ready to consider what I've sentenced these people to when we are removed from this place. I suppose they may tolerate me now, perhaps even speak to me. But I'm not sure I'm ready for that, ready to face the price those like Justin Carlan paid for my refusal.

Miles is hovering near, his voice in my head. 'He understands,' he whispers.

But he didn't want to die like that. 'Nobody wants to, but it's over. He knows what they wanted.'

*I* don't. It is frustrating when Miles decides to hold a conversation. I can feel him in the room. But he knows more than he's willing to say. Or can say. But eventually I might get it out of him.

'He loves his daughter. He knows what they wanted. He would have rather died, even the way he did.'

What do children, *babies* have to do with it? Sometimes Kira alludes to Sisko having visited her dreams, and I wonder if he leaves as many mysteries as Miles.

But at least Miles was more specific. Sloan said it was genetic research. What is he trying to do, remake *us* so we are the perfect slaves that will have the last little bit of freedom stripped away, the right to dream? Is he trying to make his own kind of Jem'Hadar?

But he's leaving me alone. He must have found someone to do his bidding. Not that I'm surprised . . .

I wonder what will happen when they die and his empire falls, if the caltie who took my intended place will live long enough to get very far.

I have the comfort of knowing *his* gods will still die, no matter how many plans they make. Too bad the Jem'Hadar will kill him before we have a chance . . .

Miles is still in my head. He gives a kind of mental shrug I can almost see. 'Look, Julian, you can't hide. They don't blame you."

Maybe. But I can still hear Justin scream, even if I'm told I'm forgiven.

His conversation is interrupted by the door opening and Ezri entering the room. He goes.

She's holding Tessie, half-asleep and nestled in her arms. I'm astonished to see the child I was sure we'd lost. "Brenda isn't taking care of her. She's sitting on the floor staring into space. Tessie wandered over to me crying. I don't care what they say I'm going to watch her until Brenda comes back."

My Ezri has changed, but now she has found a passionate reason to go on. She says very little, but never takes her eyes off the children, even those she isn't supposed to like Tessie. I don't know this woman. There is little trace of the Ezri I loved since the ordeal.

I'm afraid I've lost her completely. I don't recognize her anymore. Perhaps she is one of the early hosts, one of the mothers. I wouldn't know them. Or perhaps she is a wounded animal seeking a place to hide and to heal.

I must grant her that space. All I can do is hope she finds a way to heal. I push my own pain and confusion and guilt inside. There is no place for it now.

Tessie is almost there, eyelids drooping, and she puts her to bed in Molly and Yoshi's area under the table. The child curls into the blankets and is asleep almost immediately.

It's nice to have her back, even for a few minutes. I like her company. I'm getting sleepy just watching her, wishing I could hold her.

But I have been sitting up, trying to fight the dizziness and pounding it brings inside my head. I'd like to move around but I get so dizzy when I stand that I might pass out.

And someone is tapping on the door, waking me. I expect it to be Brenda or someone else coming for Tessie, or perhaps Kira, who checks on me often. But I don't recognize the voice. "Doctor, if I can help . . ."

I'd managed to get to the chair before I collapsed into it. I don't really want to deal with anyone, but Miles is in my head again. 'Let him help. You have to move around.' The doctor in me agrees even if I'd like to sit in this room until they drag us out.

"Come in, I guess," I say without enthusiasm.

He's tall and lanky, rather young, and nervous. I don't know him. "My name's Ray. I'm with the others. Look, I'm a medic. If I can do anything to help you," he offers.

I'm getting stiff sitting like this. I do need to get up. I *need* to walk around, even if I don't want to, and try to get back some of the strength they took. I'm not doing all that well on my own. "I'd like to take a walk, but I can't quite manage."

He glances at Tessie, looking back at me. "Look, I heard about Brenda. I know people saw Ezri take her, but, ugh, if you'd like my wife to watch her for now I'll take her. I mean, just in case somebody gets upset." He shrugs, a little uncertain.

I remember the way Ezri looked with the child in her arms, somehow complete. I don't want Ray or anyone else taking Tessie from her. I remember the halting tone she used when she gave her up, the way she sounded so broken. After Miles and the other, I won't deny her anything that makes her feel good.

He's still waiting, as if I'm going to say yes. I appreciate his offer of helping me, but not taking Tessie away. If there is a problem it will be ours.

"No, let her be," I threaten. As I say the words, the bitterness is too close, the anger ready to boil to the surface. I don't mean to snap at him, but I do.

He stands back, just watching, hesitating. "Well, if you want to take the chance I won't insist. Nobody's looks bothered anyway." But for a second the pain and the anger were all too clear, and he approaches with caution.

The flash of anger gone, I feel exhausted, the throbbing in my head twice as bad as before. "My head . . . " I say, hesitant, hoping I haven't scared him away. "It really hurts."

He moves over to my chair, where I'm holding my head, trying to stop the throbbing.

"Here, just hold still," he says. His hands find my temples, and with a gentle massage much of the pounding abates.

He asks, a bit awkwardly, if I'd like to lie down for awhile. I've been thinking of it for a long time, but standing up on my own was too hard to do. His hands are firm and support my weight as I slowly move towards the bed.

How can only a few steps be such a long way? It takes all the strength I can muster to make it and I collapse in relief.

A few hours later Ezri wakes me up when she returns for Tessie. She wakes her gently, but the child whimpers in her sleep.

"Brenda is still gone, but this one has lots of friends out there to play with right now." She leaves unspoken the rest, that we don't know how long that will last. Then she pauses. "Ray said he was going to get you up. Don't be scared of them." She tickles Tessie, who giggles a little. It breaks the dour mood. "If they were in that kind of mood I wouldn't be holding her," she says firmly, as if I was another child.

"What about Brenda?" I ask.

"She snaps out the moods like they hadn't happened. But she doesn't remember Tessie when she's in them." She looks at the child. "She didn't have anybody but Jason."

I look at Ezri and wonder if I could cope with it if they killed her, especially before Tessie and Miles and the family we have inherited. I'd have to go on for them now, but before?

Ezri and Tessie disappear and I get a little more sleep.

Ray knocks again, softly, but I'm already half-awake. I keep thinking of Ezri, how she has suddenly become the *mother* but isn't my wife. If she finds the strength to go on this way I am glad, but I will miss her just the same.

He helps me out of bed and makes me walk to the chair. I'm still dizzy and my head is still pounding but the ordeal isn't quite as bad. He's good, insistent but not too much. He's sitting, watching me as I stare at the door.

"I'll take you for a walk later. Not far, but you have to start."

It sounds like a nightmare, but I keep quiet. We both know I have to. I like that he understands. "I'd have liked to have you with me a few times, well, before . . . " I say awkwardly, trying to find an acceptable way to refer to the time when we were still free. Few ever talk about it, and there is no one term everyone uses.

"I worked with a combat aide station," he says, pausing. "After I got hurt they sent me back to ship duty."

It's like a story now. The war and the parts we played aren't real. But then the peace before sounds like a dream now too.

After a little time has passed, he gets me to my feet and I walk out the door, not far, but I constantly feel like I'm going to black out, and he steadies me as I stumble along.

I don't see much, but can feel the crowding, the little sounds of too many bodies in one place. It's so odd, so telling that time is running out. I pick up my pace a little at the thought. I don't want to be carried out.

But I'm relieved, too. The new ones don't know me, not really, and all they see is the broken remains of what I was. And my own group, where I was invisible, have cautiously begun to let me back inside. They don't talk-hardly anybody talks-but I don't feel alone.

Evening comes, and I am asleep when Ezri arrives with Tessie. "We can't get inside," she says, sadly. "I told them I would take her for the night and nobody stopped me."

Tessie is already asleep and curls around in the general bundle of children inside the blankets.

Ezri is happy, as if she has won some kind of victory. But I still wonder if the price was worth the cost. Or is she taking Tessie to show all of them-Realand and Weyoun both-that they cannot win in the end.

o0o

Ray's efforts pay off and the next morning I feel a bit better. He arrives early, just after Ezri has left with all three of the children, carrying my bowl of mush.

I'm even hungry today.

He helps me up to the table to eat, and is sitting guard when Ezri returns. She smiles at him. "Doing better today?"

"I think so." He looks at Molly. "Kara is waiting for you. All she talked about last night was your game."

She looks towards both I and Ezri, anxious to go. Ezri shrugs. "I'll be back," she says.

We're left with the two younger children. Tessie is pretending Yoshi is a monster and dashes around the room with appropriate noise.

You might even believe they were normal children if it wasn't for the wariness to other noises.

"We should take you out for a longer walk today," he says.

I still don't want to face them, but don't know if I could stand being stuck in this tomb either. "Not too long."

"It must be true that doctors make the worse patients," he says, this time smiling. "Long as it needs to be."

I can't really argue. Once I would have done the same. Ray would have been welcome in my infirmary.

But it is very heartening that we are still capable of helping a total stranger. Ray will never know how much that means to me. A part of me clings to his caring as a reason to go on, to not give up hope.

I know I should not recover too swiftly, even if that was likely. Weyoun is waiting for my health to improve or we'd have been gone like almost all the rest. I don't want to be shunted off to the unknown. I don't want my family to have to suffer. But I know that he won't wait too long. I must regain enough strength to face whatever he has planned without it taxing Weyoun's patience. I will leave this place on my own, or not at all. I think of that, and my pride, and push away all thoughts of our destination.

We wait until Ezri returns without Molly, and he gets me to my feet.

She leaves first, the children in a hurry to go. We take my walk, longer than the day before but not so bad this time. But it leaves me exhausted, and he lets me sleep.

I'm dozing when someone knocks on the door, entering hesitantly at my tired response.

It is Brenda. She looks around the room, worried and ready to collapse. "Someone said Tessie was here," she finally says.

"Ezri took her out to play," I explain, not really awake but unable to ignore the look on her face and the desolation in her manner.

"That, that's good." Then she looks at me, stricken. "I didn't want to take her, not that way." She looks away. "Then they killed Jason and I . . . "

She's collapses on the chair, staring at her shaking hands. If it was Ezri, would I feel the same?

"You didn't have much of a choice." It doesn't say anything about the real pain inside her, but I can't deal with that part.

"I couldn't help today. I knew he was gone, but then I had this *dream*, this vivid dream where he wasn't. Then," she says stumbling over the words, "then I woke up and knew he was gone and I just couldn't take it. I just couldn't manage," she says, her voice fading. "All I wanted to do was hold onto him."

"And Tessie?" I ask reluctantly, understanding the pain she's in.

"When the war was over, we planned to start a family. There were treatments for my problem, but we didn't really want children yet so it seemed fine to leave it that way. Then things worked out like this and all we had was each other." She stares at her hands. "Tessie wasn't part of that, not yet. But when I, well, woke up, the first thing was Tessie, and I was so afraid that she wasn't there."

It would be so easy to take the child back. All I need do is question that she won't forget again. I still love Tessie, even with Molly and Yoshi there now. I do want her back. But not at Brenda's expense. If something happens to Ezri or I, the other will not be *alone* anymore.

She sobbing now, murmuring incoherent things to herself. "Come here," I offer, arms extended. Brenda moves slowly, as if in a trance, but comes. She lets me hold her while she sobs. I keep thinking of Miles, how he won't leave, how I'm not sure I want him too.

When she's quiet she pulls away, sitting and facing me. "I'm worried for Tessie," she says.

She should be worried for all of us, especially the children. When we are deported we have no idea what will happen to any of us. But you have to grasp the future believing it will go on in some meaningful way.

"If you can't handle her just bring her here. We'll watch her." She looks lost, still very alone. I still worry, remembering Scalman. "You aren't alone. You need each other."

She sits still. Slowly, she nods. "If I, if sometime I can't manage anymore, take her back. You're the only kind of father she's ever known."

Which is true. I wonder what Realand would do if I tried. Or did Miles and the others buy me that right as well?

She sits in the chair, keeping me silent company. But she's very tired, and Ray soon returns for more exercise. He takes her home, puts her to bed.

"Did she give you the girl?" he asks.

"She was going to. She almost did," I say, thinking over her words. As unstable as she is, it may be a matter of time. If we have that time.

"Good," he says matter of factly. "Making arraignments is important. She can't bury the dead. If you don't they bury you."

I keep thinking of Miles, invading my dreams and my days. Ray must be lucky. He hasn't lost anyone so close. But it's time to stand and walk and prepare for the future none of us can see where Ray's understanding may prove all too true.

o0o

Ray comes every day. He arrives before breakfast, always bringing my bowl. He waits while I eat and returns it to the servers. Usually, he eats his own at the same time.

He isn't Miles. I don't even know him. I wish I could tell him how much this means to me. If someone can care, if someone can still give their time as he has done, we have not lost everything.

Ezri regularly takes the children out to play. They have taken to her as if she had always been a part of their life. She is mother. When they are sad, she holds them while they cry. When Molly's nightmares get too bad she wakes and takes the child in her arms until she is relaxed. She's not Ezri then, but not lost either. Sometimes, when they've gone to sleep she sits and watches them. Even if she says nothing, I have the uncanny feeling that Jadzia is sitting besides me.

She watches Tessie too, careful not to get in Brenda's way. But I can see the look in her eyes, ready to take the child again. I know Brenda approves, but I want her to hold together as much for our sake as for Tessie's. To have her so close and know she isn't ours hurts too much.

I was her father for a little while. She taught us to care, how to push back the fears for a little while. Now we have Molly and Yoshi, and our promises to their parents. But I understand too much now. I have made a promise I will keep, be their father, but I'm not ready for that yet.

I can't stop seeing the flashes of blood when I think of Miles. I can't allow myself to take his place. I filled a role Tessie had never known, but when I hold his children, when I allow myself to fill his role in their lives, I'll have to let go of him.

Ray came back early today, suggesting a longer walk. I'm able to sit up much longer now. He is there when Molly and his own daughter Kara come rushing in after a toy. He watches as they disappear, growing very quiet.

"Molly is very lucky," he says. "She has Ezri. Some of our kids aren't so fortunate."

I know why he comes here. I know why he is taking care of me. He has to have something to believe in too. In my own way, I'm giving him a reason to go on.

I remember the man who forced us to divide the rations a lifetime ago. "We can't let them make us into animals," I say, remembering. "Had some of them already lost their mothers?"

"A couple," he says. "We're trying to take care of them. We'll manage," he says finally, resigned. Then he looks at me. Hesitantly, he adds, "Molly and her brother need a father too. You haven't even touched them that I can tell."

I could make an excuse. It still hurts to hold Ezri, but I do it. "It's their father, I can't . . . "

He's watching me. "He's dead, Doctor. Let him go. You can't bring him back by pushing away his children."

I've been dreaming about Miles. Sometimes I know he's there, and don't want him to go. Ray is right, but can't understand what it feels like inside to know . . . "I'm responsible for his death," I say.

"Then take the responsibility and care about those kids. They need you now. He doesn't." His voice is hard and firm. I can almost see Kira standing there.

There is an uncomfortable silence. It hurts, but he's right. "Miles was my best friend. It's hard," I say.

"Especially if he was a friend," says Ray.

"I know." I start to push myself up, ready to change the subject. "I'm ready for a walk."

"Not yet." He stands, looking at me. "I know what happened. I don't know what it feels like. But I know you have to go on. The only thing I *have* is my family. If . . . if something happened to me I would want to know that somebody else could give them what I couldn't anymore." He moves closer. "Look, you won't be their father, not yet, but they need to know you care. They need you to show them."

I close my eyes and sit again. I remember all the times I'd seen Miles watching his children, and the fear that lived behind the joy. It was something I had believed I understood, but only because of the knowledge I'd never know it personally. I would have no children to leave behind. Even now, Tessie's many losses a hard reminder, I am only beginning to understand. "Miles couldn't bring himself to say that. But he would agree with you."

Ray looks away. "They shot one of my best friends. His wife didn't make it back from work a few weeks ago. We lost a lot more people than you did over the last months. We've had to learn to live with it too."

Miles is so near, but grows more distant as I start to let him go. I cannot see the man that played darts with me anymore, just the blood covered body they made of him. We must have been lucky. We were important. Now we are just like the rest. It's harder to live with it when you fall so far.

But Miles gave us a gift we can never forget. He brought the books. When we were reading, we owned ourselves. We were given a way to escape, granted the gift of dreams. Miles will never leave us as long as we have the books.

It is time to read them again. I pull myself up, Ray steadying me. I move towards the stack of books on the edge of the table, and take the one on the top. When the families things were moved here, they brought the books as well. It's heavy, and he carries it for me.

My vision is still fuzzy, but passable. I'm still dizzy, but much better. I don't know how much time we have left. I don't know if this is the last time we'll have to honor the memory of the man who gave us so many hours of freedom.

Ray helps me out the door and into the now crowded area. I get a place to sit on a bench rather than the floor. We are still being fed once a day. There will be no dinner and we have a long day with nothing to do. But I hand the book to Kira, who holds it up for everyone to see.

"Get everybody out here," she commands. "We'll be reading today."

People drift out of the little rooms they cling to as home before even that goes away. It's crowded, and the reader sits in a chair in the middle so everyone has a better chance to hear.

Ray offers to read first. His voice is strong, and he nods at me as he begins. We close our eyes and are drawn into the improbable life of Arthur Dent, currently the guest of Slartibartfast, designer of planets, especially ones with lots of fiords. We find that we haven't forgotten how to laugh.

"It is of course well known that careless talk costs lives, but the full scale of the problem is not always appreciated.

I think of Sloan, wondering what has been done to him, if he has survived it at all this time. Or did he play the game? Somehow, though, I trust him to keep the secret.

"For instance, at the very moment that Arthur said, 'I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my life-style,' a freak wormhole opened up in the fabric of the space-time continuum and carried his words far far back in time across almost infinite reaches of space to a distant Galaxy where strange and warlike beings were poised on the brink of frightful interstellar battle.

I see the fleets posed near Cardassia, ready to live or die but finish the war however it happened. Would we have been so anxious if we'd known how it would end?

"The two opposing leaders were meeting for one last time."

"A dreadful silence fell across the conference table as the commander of the Vl'hurgs, resplendent in his black-jeweled battle shorts, gazed levelly at the G'Gugvuntt leader squatting opposite him in a cloud of green sweet-smelling steam, and, with a million sleek and horrible be weaponed star cruisers poised to unleash electric death at his single word of command, challenged the vile creature to take back what it had said about his mother."

I let in the words, smell the steam surrounding the G'Gugvuntt leader, see the fleet waiting to deliver death.

"The creature stirred in his sickly broiling vapor and at that very moment the words, *I seem to be having tremendous difficult with my life-style* drifted across the conference table."

"Unfortunately, in the Vl'Hurg tongue this was the most dreadful insult imaginable, and there was nothing for it but to wage terrible war for centuries."

The fantasy fades a little; we lost the war but somehow, in other ways, the war must go on.

"Eventually, of course, after their Galaxy had been decimated over a thousand years, it was realized the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, and so the two opposing battle fleets settled their few remaining differences in order to launch a joint attack on our Galaxy, now positively identified as the source of the offending remark."

"For thousands more years, the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on the first planet they came across-which happened to be the Earth-where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battlefleet was accidently swallowed by a small dog."

" 'It's just life,' they say."

Here we sit, crowded and still, listening to the words as if we are tasting forbidden fruit. The slimy green vapors of the G'Gugvuntt leader drift around us as we see that last meeting, hear the sickly broiling burbles, and we can feel the icy stare as Arthur, in quiet discussion with Slarti about the universe, unintentionally starts a terrible war. The whole incongruity of it is appealing, and Ray has done an excellent job of the words and the tone. We start to applaud. The guards, by now ever present, come closer but we ignore them. If we worry them we make our own lives a little more bleak, lose this place a bit sooner than we might have, but what will be will be.

After all, it's just life.

Imbedded in Arthur's brain is the answer to the greatest question of all time, just what did Deep Thought mean when he said the answer was 42? What was the proper question to ask? Trillion's mice, now revealed to be somewhat other than disposable rodents, desire to buy his brain to find it, although they will have to remove it and slice and dice it to find the secret. Arthur declines. Maybe nobody else would miss him, but he'd miss himself.

How many of us would have understood for a moment before life was ripped away from them?

The mice have other ideas, and Arthur is about to have his brain removed when the Galactic police arrive in search of Zaphod. And just as the best laid plans of men were ruined by the Vogons, the best laid plans of the mice were defeated by the rather heavy awards Slarti had collected as they made contact with the thugs heads sent to collect Zaphod.

So they shoot instead. Or planned to, as somehow their life support packs all fail at once. Several people are boldly staring at the Jem'Hadar, making their own silent wishes. I keep my own eyes to myself. Loose talk and all that, or the wrong glances . . .

*His* best laid plans will not come to be. He ruined our plans for our lives, we pay him back in kind. Even if loose talk happens, our revenge will still come to be.

I feel Miles near, laughing. Nothing has really changed for us, but I feel better. Miles loved readings. He deserves to hear the whole book. It's a small measure of justice in this cold universe.

But Slarti comes through, and while Arthur thumbs through Ford's copy of the Hitchiker's guide figuring he has to live here he might as well learn something about the place, Zaphod suggests the Restaurant at the End of the Universe for lunch. We have finished the first book of Arthur's adventures.

And then, Miles is gone. As the next reader steps up to the chair, taking the book from Ray, I feel alone. In whatever makes up the afterlife, they still tell you what to do. Maybe he only got to take care of unfinished business and hear the end, but now it's done.

The young woman, one of Sloan's group, looks up until she has our attention. "I'm Nancy, for those who don't know me. Next up, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe."

There is a sadness to her that is unmistakable. Is she one of the widow's? And there is a notable silence as we have to decide but cannot debate. Is there time to finish it? But if we stop, are we letting *them* take away this little slice of freedom.

"Read it." I'm surprised to see it's Realand. Nobody bothers to argue. She takes a drink of water to prepare.

Sloan's group has already read it, but they are avid listeners. I keep thinking of Miles, how he'd lent me the book when I was being shunned, how he'd cherished this time when we owned our lives. He deserved better. I owe a great debt to him and do not know how to pay it back. However cautiously, I am being allowed to exist again, a special debt. He brought us the books, but will never get to hear this one.

Suddenly everything shuts out, all the laughter and even the light. It had been dimly lit in that room. I remember most of it now. But it is like watching a horror movie, just pictures that aren't real. The others they executed are scattered along a wall, all fallen in the unnatural positions of death. Keiko is slumped over, still alive, so still you might think she was just sleeping except for the blood.

And Miles lies in the middle of a dark red puddle, curled up and half face down. The blood is his own, and it obscured the slashed organs that rushed out when they hacked him apart. It is the way I see him now, each time I allow myself to remember him.

The room grows brighter, and the horror fades. I push it away. I made a promise to Miles that I would care for his children, and I cannot do that with my mind locked into that room. They need more than hatred. I force myself back to the book.

Nancy is very self-conscious, but reads slowly, very careful not to stumble over any of the words. This moment is very special to her, and she holds the book with great reverence. So much is gone. These books are valuable treasures to us.

"Two of these strange, apelike creatures survived."

"Arthur Dent escaped at the very last moment because an old friend of his, suddenly turned out to be from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse and not from Guildford as he had hitherto claimed; and, more to the point, he knew how to hitch rides on flying saucers."

I picture Arthur Dent as he stares at space, wishing he had a little more to remember the Earth than his dressing gown. We have lost so much, but the books will keep alive our memories of home.

"Tricia McMillan-or Trillian-had skipped the planet six months earlier with Zaphod Beeblebrox, the then President of the Galaxy."

"Two survivors."

"They are all that remains of the greatest experiment ever conducted-to find the Ultimate Question and the Ultimate Answer of Life, the Universe, and Everything."

How many of us remain, I wonder. Kira said there were thousands on Cardassia, and few would come back. And each place there was resistance there was another slaughter. More than two, I know, but still too few . . .

I take a deep breath. It still aches a little when I breath deeply. Two survivors of a massacre, Ezri and I. All the others Weyoun had brought as hostages are dead. Arthur and Trillion. All the others, still confined to Earth, have perished too. We are alive, but still targets, just like the two remaining ape-like creatures the Vogons missed.

Nancy has found her rhythm, and her voice is strong as she goes to the next chapter and the Vogon's attempts to take care of their mistake.

"If you are wise, however, this is precisely what you will avoid doing because the average Vogon will not think twice before doing something so hideous to you that you will wish you had never been born-or (if you are a clearer minded thinker) that the Vogon had never been born."

I remember the first few days at the internment camp when I'd discovered the basic nature of the Jem'Hadar, just as all the people left here have come to know. When the Founders die, the Jem'Hadar will eventually go as well. I suspect nobody will miss them.

"In fact, the average Vogon probably wouldn't even think once. They are simple-minded, thick-willed, slug-brained creatures and thinking is not really something they are cut out for."

The Jem'Hadar are walking by, slowing suspiciously by the gate. Her voice gets a little more quiet, and we have to listen carefully. People are trying not to look at the gate.

"The fairest thing you can say about them, then, is that they know what they like, and what they like generally involves hurting people and wherever possible, getting very angry."

Eyes turn towards the gate where the Jem'Hadar have stopped, and nervously back towards the woman.

"One thing they don't like is leaving a job unfinished-particularly this Vogon, and particularly-for various reasons-this job."

The Heart of Gold is being scanned by the Vogon ship, and Zaphod is annoyed with Eddie the Shipboard Computer for refusing to go to the Restaurant at the end of the universe. But Arthur is even more annoyed. He just wants a cup of tea, and not the brown stuff the synthesizer thinks is tea. After a long explanation of tea, its history, practice, even folklore, the Nutri-Matic Drinks Synthesizer has called on Eddie for help. When Eddie has solved the mystery of tea it can go somewhere else, but right now it's occupied.

Abruptly, I think of Miles, standing next to Zaphod, patiently trying to talk Eddie out of making tea and growing frustrated by the effort. I smile a little. For a moment the room and the blood is banished. But the anger is so strong, and the grief. Miles would have enjoyed reading about Eddie.

Ford spots the Vogons but the computer is still into tea.

I remember the stunned shock on the Defiant when the Breen weapon shut down every system, leaving us dead in space with the Jem'Hadar locked on, ready to destroy her just as the Vogons will the Heart of Gold in four minutes.

While the computer is still busy working on the quandary of what is tea, Zaphod decides he must contact his great grandfather before they all die. A seance is held. The old man isn't very pleased with things. I remember sitting in the escape pod, wondering if they would let us live. In that moment, I was closer to my family than I had been in a long time. Perhaps faced with death we all reach for family, to confirm how they feel-or just to say good bye.

The Vogons keep firing, surprised and rather disappointed that there had been no chase. But as the Heart of Gold is about to be demolished as Earth was before it, the computer solves the mystery of the true nature of tea.

" . . . the bridge filled with billowing smoke and the Heart of Gold leaped an unknown distance through the dimensions of time and space."

The Jem'Hadar have moved away, and there is an audible sigh of relief at out hero's escape. We survived Chintaka because they let us live, granted life to us in exchange for the palatable feel of defeat we took home with us. But Arthur and Ford and the others lived because they escaped. Sometimes it works that way.

They hold us prisoner. They control most of our lives, but do not own us. With each word, we take back a little more of ourselves.

They may deport us tomorrow. They may take the books away when they do. But for now, we shut them out with laughter.

o0o

I have a headache and need to rest. But I've been alone too much. All these new people are strange to me. Nancy introduced herself, but there are too many strangers here now. The little illusion of *our* place has been broken.

Ray asks if I'm ready to go back and I shake my head. "I'd like to sit for a while."

"Good. I'll check back in a little while." He moves towards the corner where a young woman I've never seen is sitting with the little girl who was playing with Molly. His wife, I assume. I'm glad for him. I wonder if they are sleeping out here, on the floor like most of these people.

It's so noisy with little conversations, and the movement of bodies. I reminds me too much of the cargo bay even if we were left in near dark then. Now we have light so bright it makes it hard to sleep in the glare. But we didn't know what awaited us then. I suppose, we are again in much the same place now, but not the same people.

We had hope then. Now we just have survival.

Someone touches my hand, a soft voice I recognize as the reader, Nancy. "I was a very good friend of Luther's," she says.

Weyoun had said *our* families. Once, Luther had said Nancy would care for him. I'd forgotten the name. "Did you take care of him?" I ask, wondering how much to presume.

"My husband died when the station was taken, but they picked me for cargo duty anyway. I guess I was just lucky, in the right place when they came to look." She pauses. She could just as easily have ended up stuffed in a transport to Cardassia. "It wasn't until we'd been moved up here that I met Luther. They shoved him inside, and he was just . . . lost. He stared at us, tried to hide. Most people avoided him, could smell the trouble he could bring. But I didn't have anyone. I didn't care."

I begin to see how lucky we were, how specially hand picked and how carefully we were treated. Most of her group was there to work and were always instantly replaceable.

"How bad was he?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of courtesy.

"I took care of him like he was a baby at first. It took days before he gave his name. We didn't have cots, just matts on the floor of our little boxes, but we had a little privacy. I held him all night at first, and he'd cry. He kept calling me Jessica. Finally I made him repeat my name, and he actually started to look at me.

"That was his wife. He hadn't seen her for a long time." Or I assume.

"I thought a mother or a wife. Maybe a daughter, but it didn't seem like one. He acted like a child at first, let me feed him, but eventually he started to eat on his own." Twiddling her wedding ring, she looked at me with grieving eyes. "Luther saved my life. Otherwise, I wouldn't have cared if they killed me or not."

Miles said we were lucky, that our families were treated with care. Looking in Nancy's eyes, I know how true it was. I keep remembering how our luck has ended now, how soon we will discover the kind of life Nancy already knows.

"You saved his too. When I first met him he was . . . damaged, but not completely lost. I think he cared what happened because of you."

She smiled. "After they took him to work on that *project*, things changed for me. I got off the really hard work. I guess they used me to make him cooperate." She looks around the room, especially at those of our own group who were sitting with our families. "Like they did with them," she says, especially looking at Ezri.

"Did the others understand?" I ask carefully, feeling her out.

She looks down, "Sometimes. I learned to ignore them."

At least we more or less shared the guilt. "How about Luther?" I ask, finally able to satisfy my curiosity.

"He didn't notice. They didn't pay a lot of attention to him before either. They didn't trust him before and certainly not after." She pauses. "But he was all I had, and I *knew* he wouldn't betray us."

"You do know what he worked on," I add, cautiously.

"More or less. He never really said. But it was something that mattered a lot to them to treat me like they did."

They don't know. Sloan never told them, or perhaps they never believed him capable of something so complicated. If it becomes known he worked with me, he'll share my reputation.

Of course, it won't matter to him. If he's been gone this long, he won't be back. But it would matter to Nancy.

Our conversation is interrupted by a small confrontation. Jackson, carefully making his way across the crowded floor, comes a little too close to Jeffrey, sitting by himself while Realand was getting some water.

Jeffrey glares at him, turning around and giving him a look full of venom that everyone in the vicinity notices. Most of them were with Sloan's group and have no idea why.

Jackson freezes. He starts to back away, but there is little room without stepping on the people behind him. Finally he stops, caught up by the hatred of his son.

Realand has gotten his water and is slowly making his way towards the two. Jeffrey takes his fist, stretching it out as if holding a knife, and makes one silent gesture, striking downwards, with his meaning absolutely clear.

Jackson tries to get away, but can't get past the people around him.

Realand finally returns, first staring at Jackson and the people around him. "Let him leave," he growls at the assorted people in Carl's way.

Most of them know noting of the story but they move quickly, and Carl hastily retreats. Then Realand turns his attention to Jeffrey.

The boys hand is still held as if it was gripping a knife, his eyes following as Carl escapes. But Realand does not approve. He grabs the hand and jerks the boy abruptly to his feet, then slaps him hard across the face.

Jeffrey crumples, falling on his knees, hiding his face. He does not make a sound. Realand waits for a moment before letting him go. "Back, now," he says, as the boy scrambles to his feet, moving as fast as he can. Realand stops him. "The box tonight and tomorrow. Or no breakfast. You decide."

Realand doesn't lay a hand on Jeffrey, but the boy stands, looks at him. He hangs down his head. "Box," he mumbles.

The crowd watches with interest. But no one, not even those who don't know about Jeffrey, try to stop him. The look in the boys eyes was enough of an explanation.

"Go," orders Realand, and the boy moves, scared and yet with little trace of anger.

First Jeffrey, then Realand disappear into their quarters. Carl, sitting very tense with his wife, half way collapses into her arms.

Nancy has been watching, her look sad. "That's not the father," she says.

"Carl, over there, is."

She shakes her head. "None of ours have been that bad," she says. "But they aren't children."

There is no sympathy, just a cold acceptance of reality. Jeffrey is a dangerous animal that used to be a child. He's was hurt more than the rest, but nobody really expects them to stay the children they were, least of all people like Nancy who have lived through a worse hell than we have.

I look at Molly and Yoshi, playing with a few other children, and wonder how long it will take before they lose the last traces of their youth in the world that we are soon to know. I know Miles warned me, but it hurts anyway.

"I didn't plan on having any," I tell her, watching me. "But things happen."

"Yeah," she says, quietly. At least for her and Luther it won't happen. If he's still lucky, Luther is dead by now.

"I only met him a few times," I lie, mostly for any listeners. "But I'd met him before. Just seeing somebody you knew . . . "

She smiles, a little ghost of one, but I can tell she knows I'm lying, that she knows what he'd been doing even if the others don't. "He said he'd never work with them again, no matter what, after they leveled Earth." Then she adds, "Not that that will matter much when they send us away. I'm sure we'll work, just not voluntarily."

I have this grand vision of all these people standing together, simply refusing to move, unwilling to work at all. Then the blood as they die, as Sloan probably died. But they will, for the simple fact they like being alive.

Miles is in my head, whispering again. 'So will you, but don't forget. It will end.'

"This can't last forever." I can tell she wasn't told the secret, that Sloan kept that to himself. She doesn't know all the details, but has probably guessed.

Then she pauses, her tone thoughtful. "Luther told me not to give up hope, that there is a way out. I promised him I wouldn't but it's hard," she sighs. But you have to, she adds without words.

I promised Miles, too. Perhaps if she can keep her promise, I can find a way to keep mine.

o0o

I'm doing better, making my way on my own though Ray still is playing doctor and nurse. My head hurts all the time, but not too badly, and I like feeling at least a little welcome at readings. It's good being able to laugh, to really listen and join in the ebb and flow of the story. It helps banish the horror movie that keeps playing in my head when I forget to make it stop.

But we're taking a break now, people moving around, stretching their legs after sitting for hours. There isn't anything else to do but read, and while Sloan's people know the end we don't. Lost in the oddly comforting life of Arthur Dent, we all pass the time a little easier.

Ray stays near, Ezri sitting with Brenda and Tessie at the moment. Molly and her friend Kara are sitting between us, Kara holding her doll.

People keep their children near. Ezri is holding Yoshi, and I'm keeping watch on his sister. We don't let them wander anymore.

But Kara has her doll and Molly had left her's behind today. She walks the rag and paper doll to Molly, tapping on her hand. In her own doll's voice, she asks, "Mrs. Mommy, can Beja play?"

Beja is Molly's doll. Molly pulls herself up, and in the best adult voice she can, says, "Yes, dear, when she's done with her nap. I'll go see."

Molly starts to get up, annoyed when I push her back down. I won't let her go alone. And I forgot my water cup and need a drink. "I'll wake her up. Stay here with Ray."

Ray nods, the girls disappointed. But they stay. I make my way carefully through the sea of people, a little clumsy from the occasional lack of balance, but very much needing the walk, especially by myself.

As soon as I get to our quarters, I can tell something is wrong. Immediately checking the table, I can tell the books have been moved. Scanning them, I notice the Oz book is missing.

Then there is a sound of slight movement in the room and I block the door. A shadow moves under the bed, and I inspect it cautiously.

Jeffrey is hiding there, holding my book against his chest. I cannot bear the thought of someone touching the books, but stealing one makes me livid. I stare at the boy, hiding out of my reach, and begin to lift the cot.

Crawling on hands and knees, he tries to run, hoping to slip past me, but I grab a leg and jerk him back knocking him flat on the ground and forcing him to drop the book.

I'm still between him and the door. But I ignore the boy and retrieve the book, examining it carefully for damage. He watches warily. He's lucky, I don't see any. If I did he'd never make it out of the room alive.

Jeffrey is on his knees again, then on his feet. He's backing away, slowly, hoping somehow to escape before I can grab him. Or perhaps assuming that now I have the book I'll let him leave.

I'm sure Realand will discipline him, but that won't be enough this time. He is a thief, or tried to be. In this society, thieves often die. Judging from his face, Jeffrey understands too.

He starts to back away, slowly at first, then faster as I continue to follow. He's trying to face me down, probably planning a distraction and a dash for the door. But my arm shoots out and grabs his before he's ready, and I drag him roughly along the floor, then out the door, dropping him in front of me but not letting him go.

This is not just for Jeffrey, the thief, but for any of the other potential ones out there. They will not touch my books, Miles books. I will kill anyone who does. I don't know about Jeffrey, but want to.

I pull him to his feet, suddenly slapping him on the cheek so hard he lands on the floor again before he can try to get away.

Glaring down at him, I realize he's not moving, too stunned to run. But he'll try, and my foot smashes into his leg where he has it curled and he tries to roll away, whimpering a little. Who'd have known the little monster could sound so scared. I move upward, smashing my foot into his buttocks near the tailbone, not ready to injure him but wanting him to hurt very badly. More kicks follow and he tries to pull away, when I move towards his back, annoyed by his efforts.

Noise distracts me and I don't kick him that hard, probably saving his miserable life. He stops moving, huddled on his side, trying to protect his stomach and head.

He knows what it is to be beaten, how to protect himself. The rage grows inside me, the desire to hurt him more than anyone has before, to make him pay for his attempt at theft before a final swift act of mercy.

I want him dead.

But there are people around now, and they are looking, nobody trying to stop me but giving me room. For a flash I'm on the floor and it's Realand's foot. But the rage is too much and I draw my foot back again, hitting the boy in the side, rolling him onto his stomach.

Now he isn't moving at all, unconscious. But he is breathing and I haven't touched the worse places. I'm disappointed, wanting more, but want the assembled watchers to know why.

"Nobody takes my books," I declare, foot drawn back for a final kick that is meant to end it however it works out.

But I pull my foot back, nearly stumbling. Suddenly Realand has put himself between me and the boy. Quite noble of him to risk taking the kick for the little monster. But the score I have with him is not ready to settle so soon.

He looks up at me, trying to demand, but before he manages to put it in words it has become a plea. "Don't kill him," he says, realizing that he can't stop me if I choose to.

I walk around him, looking at the crumpled boy. He's breathing regularly enough, not like he would if I'd managed to injure him internally. He's probably hit his head, and will hurt badly for days, but will live.

And remember-as the rest here will. I wonder how many of them wish I'd finish the job. I doubt many of them would risk Jeffrey's revenge if they stood in my place. But I like the way they are looking at me, with wary respect and fear.

I glare down at the boy, tapping him with my foot while Realand watches nervously. "That piece of trash stole one of my books. The books will not be touched." I pull back my foot as if I was about to deliver the coupe-de-gras, Realand shuffling towards me but stopping, eyes fixed on the boy, afraid. "Remember, I'll kill the next one that tries it." I move back, letting Realand retrieve the boy, stopping him in his tracks with my look. "Go. Get that filth out of my sight. But remember you're responsible for him. He gets anywhere near my family or my things again and I'll kill him, and you since you let it happen."

Realand shifts the boy's position, supporting his head and carrying him carefully in his arms. "He won't bother you again," says Realand, nervous and worried. He knows I mean every word. So do the rest. I watch as he hastily retreats, glad to have the chance to escape.

The rest of them are watching, still frozen in place. "Any takers?" I ask, glaring at all of them, pleased to see them shake their heads, watching as they back away from me.

I turn away, entering our quarters, and sit with the dropped book, examining it closer. There is a small nick that wasn't there before, at least that I can remember. Of course, it could have happened some other way. But just the same I almost regret the leniency I showed the thief.

But inside, alone, all the emotion is done now. Realand and his monster charge have been warned. Everyone else has been put on notice. I could see the looks of fear in their eyes, and the rough respect as well. Nobody else would have gone after Jeffrey and left him alive. I don't know if I worry or not, but I know that today I played my game perfectly.

I remember the doll. I pick up Beja carefully, keeping her little dress arranged as Molly had done that morning. I get my water cup too. I'm still thirsty, and anxious to hear more of the book.

The corridor is deserted now. I'm calm, all the anger spent. The books are safe, my family will be left alone. Realand and his foot are still owed back, but that comes later when the time is right. For now, he knows there will be a time.

Miles left me the books, a little piece of our past and future, as a guardian, just as much as he did his children. I will protect both with my life, or the life of anyone who takes them.

Odd though, Miles is near, but can't get close. He's watching from a distance, his face an unreadable mask. 'I'll keep all of them safe,' I tell him but he can't hear either.

I notice that the pathway is cleared a little faster than it might have, and nobody gets in my way when I go for water. I hand Molly her doll, the girls having found a new game, and Ray gives me a curious glance. Eventually everyone is settled to read, Realand poking his head out and then retreating away. But no one does. The book sits on the chair, untouched.

Ray nudges me, and I notice Ezri staring with worry. "They're waiting for permission," he says.

I realize I've made them do what I want for once and it feels very good. But they have permission to read this one. Don't they understand?

"Who wants to read next?" Ray offers.

The group is still too quiet, the reading compromised. Daniel finally stands up and looks at me, his eyes asking permission. "I will," he says.

"Let's do it," I say, and Ray glances at Ezri, her eyes fixed on me. Daniel steps forward, takes the book, still watching me, and starts to read.

And then all the terrors vanish as the magic takes over and we are free.

o0o

The readings done. It's late, at least according to our bodies, even if we are denied any other clues. I've listened to the reading until it broke up, and gone back to rest.

Someone pushes open the door. I expect Ezri, but unexpectedly find Kira filling my door. Hands on hips, it's clear she has something on her mind.

"It was a good thing you didn't kill the boy," she says. "Not that you didn't intend to."

Her whole tone is disapproving. I don't want to hear it. I glare back at her, angry. "I didn't kill him. Is that enough?"

"No," she says, moving across the room, standing right in front of me. "You intended to. The only reason you didn't was Realand pled for his life and you liked the idea of sparing him."

"I did spare him," I counter. "I didn't have to."

"You're lucky," she says, sitting down on our chair, staring at me. "You kill someone, you cross the line."

"I've killed before," I say. "Haven't I already done that?"

"Not this way." She pauses, thinking. "Or maybe you have. There was Odo."

I saved Odo, but then I remember his counterpart in the other universe, the one ready to execute me. "I was defending my life."

"True, but you still killed him. Your first I believe."

She stops, her manner softer, more worried. "Look Julian. You kill the boy, you push this anger too far and it will control you. You used it with Jeffrey, let it go, but I warn you, once you let it out, you belong to it."

"What's this about?" I ask, wondering why she's bringing this up now.

"You. You and Ezri. Have you noticed how she's teetering on the brink? Have you even seen how she's ready to crumple? Then you almost turn killer. Did you see how nervous she was? Did she wonder if the next thing she says will set you off, or Ray or me? Maybe one of the children? Julian, you have to keep that rage inside. If you ever let it out it's all over. Remember who it's for-not these people."

"The boy is a thief," I say, keeping my voice under control. "He stole one of the books-Miles legacy, in case you have forgotten. If he'd damaged it I *would* have killed him on the spot."

"And nobody but Realand would have missed him. But you would have destroyed yourself as well. Don't you see that?" She takes my hand, pulling me up to a sitting position. "They know now. They won't challenge you anymore. You made your point." She pauses, shifts around a little. "But you have to keep the anger under control now. In their own ways they respect that little display, but only if your careful. They understand about the books. They would understand your family, even do the same if it was theirs. But they might not if it's about some little thing that doesn't mean the same."

"I suppose you would know," I mutter, wishing she didn't make so much sense. Ezri had been nervous after the incident, watching me. I love her, don't want her afraid of me.

"Whatever happens, and it might just be that everyone here is moved somewhere else, you could matter a lot to them in the future. But only if you keep control. They don't want a madman as a leader."

"I'm no leader." I can't imagine anyone accepting the man who saved the Founders as a leader.

"You could be. I don't know where we're going, but it won't be easy. However much you don't want to admit it, you got them to listen. Nobody else has. Remember, I grew up in a world like this. People respect strength, no-nonsense authority. They need it. You could be their leader, if you'll do it."

"Why should I?" I ask, remembering the way I'd been excluded, the way Realand had stolen Tessie with all of their approval.

"Because it's a reason to go on. Because it's something to believe in. This will end some day. When the Cardassians left, we had our home to rebuild. You don't have that. You have to find some way to go on, keep from drifting a thousand directions. You don't have to like the job, just take it."

In a matter of months the Founders will be dead, and we'll have to face having no home, no identity. I just don't see anyone wanting me around. Maybe Miles, if he was alive. But not me.

But I've noticed the way Ezri is never the same anymore, the way I hardly know my wife. I don't think the others really care what happens to me, but she does. And Kira's right. Whatever comes of us in the immediate future, I can manage as long as my family is there.

"I'll watch it," I promise. "For Ezri and the children, for Miles too. The rest . . . "

"Good. Think about it. You've got what it takes."

She leaves, closing the door, and I rest again. But I can't sleep. What if she's right? What will come when this is done, when the Founders perish and Weyoun falls? What if all we have is some small bit of wasteland, but even then, more to lose?

I watch as she leaves, closing the door, not sure if I want the months to go slowly while we find a way or so swiftly we won't even recognize freedom when we find it.

End, Part 2, Chapter 13 of Surrender


	14. Surrender Part 2 Chapter 14

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 2 – Necessary Compromises

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this story:

Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams

Chapter 14

For the last three days I've gotten up and joined the others, especially for the reading. I'm no longer shunned by them. While they aren't friendly they all know about what I did, the kind of choice I made. Miles and the others bought me a place in this society.

And Jeffrey gave me a place as well. He's been back, hurting and sick but very alive. Neither he nor Realand even look at me. I cowed the little beast. They like that idea too.

Still I wonder, sometimes, if I hadn't been reeling from Odo's description of Earth with the cold hard details making it too real if I'd have not given in, at least for the sake of appearances. In time, I would have truly become Weyoun's property and served his gods or he would have found other ways to punish me, trying to force my true cooperation. But it would have bought these people time. Miles and the others would be alive. I would be permanently shut out of their lives, with no way back, but would that have been better? Each time I look at Molly and Yoshi I have to ask myself if the slaughter was worth it.

Physically I feel much better, although my head still aches and I am still a little dizzy. Ray has kept watch, dropping in to see if anything is needed just the same as before, but I make me do things for myself. Now, I'm recovering so much faster. We are still strangers. But I welcome his company. We owe each other a debt that makes life a little easier for both of us.

He will never know how much it means to me that somebody can still care. But he can't miss the way I've been hugging Molly and her brother, how I ask how their day was, how they are beginning to run to me when I enter the room. I know I'm not their father, but they know how much they matter to me. That was Ray's gift to me, just as a chance to care, to affirm his humanity, was mine to him.

Each day I expect us to be evicted from this place and relegated to the tombs below. There is still only one meal a day. Before, the rest of the endless hours were filled with aimless boredom and speculation. But now we read. We are taking our time, having finished Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The guards would stand by the gates, just watching, as we laughed. Weyoun is wrong to think we belong to his gods. We are forced into following the orders they give, but our lives are ours as we share the travels as the motley crew of the Heart of Gold muddle their way across the universe.

This volume contains three books, but we will not read the third one yet. I did not make the decision. It was left up to everyone. Nobody knows how much time we have left here. No one wants to miss the end of the book. And perhaps we leave it unread as an affirmation that we will yet have another chance to finish it.

Instead, we are saying good bye to this place with a kind of celebration. Each person finds his or her favorite passages in the parts we've read and reads them aloud to the rest. It is a glimpse inside each of us, both a beginning as we allow the others to see and an ending as we allow ourselves a little closure. When we are done here, we may never see each other again. But we'll always have these last few days to share.

The current reader is nervous, one of Sloan's people I've not met, and he sits on the chair very uneasily. Out of the corner of his eye, he constantly watches the gate. But he holds the book with such immense care that I realize there is something worse than exile to some piece of hell. Weyoun could take the books. Without them we are nothing.

He shifts around, finding a way he can be still, and eventually opens the book to near the middle. "Restaurant at the End of the Universe," he says softly, his voice uncertain. "Chapter 14, the restaurant . . ." he says.

Several people look disappointed. We agreed we wouldn't reread the same place twice. Anything having to do with food sounds good to us now. But everyone settles down to watch as he stares at the words, trying very hard not to mumble them.

"Four inert bodies sank through the spinning blackness. Consciousness had died, cold oblivion pulled the bodies down into the pit of unbeing. The roar of silence echoed dismally around them and they sank at last into a dark and bitter sea of heaving red that slowly engulfed them, seeming for ever."

"After what seemed an eternity the sea receded and left them lying on a cold hard shore, the flotsam and jetsam of the stream of Life, the Universe and Everything."

"Cold spasms shook them, lights danced sickeningly around them. The cold hard shore tipped and spun and then stood still. It shone darkly-it was a very highly polished cold hard shore."

"A green blur watched them disapprovingly."

"It coughed."

" 'Good Evening, madam, gentlemen,' it said. 'Do you have a reservation?' "

Ford and company have arrived at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The bleak world in which we live, the ever present brightness, and all the rest of our dismal existence vanish as we land with them on that hard cold shore and stare woozily at the green blur with the currently befuddled Ford Prefect.

" 'Reservation?' he said weakly."

" 'Yes, sir,' said the green blur."

" 'Do I need a reservation for the afterlife?' " asks Ford.

Arthur and Trillion and Ford and Zaphod agree that they must be dead since they couldn't have possibly survived the blast which was the last thing they remembered. The first time, I had been too firmly reminded of waking after Miles . . . or that moment I first saw the grey walls of Internment Camp 371. But he forgave me and that time has grown less terrible when faced with reality. I can enjoy their confusion now. I can let it carry me into a land where a machine exfoliated the whole of reality from a bit of fairy cake. I wonder sometimes if Miles isn't still here in whatever form the dead take when among the living, just to hear the stories.

Gradually, the blurs in the room clear up and they realize they are standing in a restaurant. They still think it's an odd place to enter the afterlife.

"The chandeliers were in fact a little on the flashy side and the low vaulted ceiling from which they hung would not, in an ideal universe, have been painted in that particular shade of deep turquoise, and even if it had been it wouldn't have been highlighted by concealed moonlighting."

The restaurant comes to life all around us and the reader gains a little more confidence, his voice stronger. Arthur looks out the curtain at the dismal landscape outside, and while his skin crawls the curtain is pulled back.

" 'All in good time, sir,' " says the flunky.

Drinks are offered, and reality starts to dawn when the waiter mentions it isn't unusual to be disoriented after the time journey. Been there, I think. How did Douglas Adams know what it feels like to wake up in some other time? We knew we were in San Francisco. We just didn't know when.

Zaphod starts to get it.

" 'Hey, guys,' he said, 'this is crazy. We did it. We finally got to where we are going. This is Milliways!' "

They sit, ready for their drinks as Arthur starts to sort it all out. The Universe will end in a few minutes.

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe is a fascinating place. Built on the ruins of a deserted planet, it is encased in a giant time bubble moved forward to the moment when the universe will end. I wonder if Miles would try to explain it in terms of chromatons. Somehow, I like it better that even if it's impossible, it happens anyway.

"At the Restaurant you can meet and dine with a fascinating cross-section of the entire population of space and time."

Still impossible, but you deposit one penny in your own time, and the compound interest takes care of the rest. There is not a soul in the room who does not crave the fabulous meal that penny would buy. But even more we crave the impossible. For us, it is simple, freedom to sleep in the dark, to leave and return without guards, to live without fear. In this act of defiance, we take up the offer penned by the advertising executives of the star system of Bastablon. " 'If you've done six impossible things this morning, why not round it off with breakfast at Milliways, the Restaurant at the end of the Universe?' ".

The reader closes the book, keeping the place, as the idea of breakfast teases our fancy. He hands it to a woman, very young, also one of Sloan's people. She smiles at us, "I'll just continue on from there," she says.

Ford is drinking a series of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters. Here and there people smile to themselves. This insane idea pops into my head. My friend Felix could have created the Restaurant. Vic and his band could have played there. I'm sure Quark could have found a suitable recipe that would fit the drink. I'd have liked to watch the universe end in a sumptiously gaudy dining area, sipping my own drink. If only this was the End of the Universe, and we could go back before Felix died and holotechnology became lost to us.

Abruptly, Ford spots an old acquaintance. All his other old friends are dead since this is the end of the universe, except those currently at Milliways. Hotback Desiato appears to be part of the band, makers of loud rock music played on instruments by remote control, their songs "on the whole very simple and mostly follow the familiar theme of boy-being meets girl-being beneath a silvery moon, which then explodes for no adequately explored reason."

Come to think of it, most of the songs Vic sang were like that, more or less. I wish I could hear them one more time. But the readers voice fades and I see him, greeting us with a smile and a song, and quite abruptly I realize that Vic is dead too. Quarks is gone and his holosuites dismantled. I wonder if they gave them to someone else as a reward. I wonder if Vic is entertaining someone else now, someone alien. I wonder if he knows he's just as much a prisoner as we are.

I let my mind drift, Vic replacing the resplendent Max Quordlepleen as the host of the end of the universe. The lights dim in the restaurant and I imagine these are a little less bright. People start to close their eyes, as the dome of the restaurant becomes transparent and above them lies "a dark and sullen sky hung heavy with the ancient light of livid swollen stars."

I join them as the universe begins to end.

"A monestrous, grizzly light pounded in on them

-a hideous light

-a boiling, pestilential light

-a light that would have disfigured hell.

The Universe was coming to an end."

"For a few interminable seconds the restaurant spun silently through the raging void."

Max returns to announce this is the end. The band plays. In my head I hear Vic, singing a soft rendition of "My Way."

". . . and now I face my final curtain. My friends, I state this clear, I state my case of which I'm certain. I've lived a life that's full, I traveled each and every byway. And no, much more than this, I did it my way."

"For what has a man, what has he got, if not himself then he has naught . . . The records show I took the blows and did it my way."

The tumultuous sky swirls above me, bathed in quiet eery light. Vic's voice swells over it as he reaches the end of the song and I say good bye to him, to everything. It takes a few minutes to notice the young woman has stopped reading.

Slowly, I open my eyes to the harsh, ever-present brightness and wish I was-all of these people were-in the Restaurant with Ford and Arthur watching the end knowing they weren't there forever. For us it is. There is so little left. We can't have it back, no matter what the next months and years hold for us. Of course, neither can Arthur. I wonder what goes through his head, if he is replaying the end of his own universe in his head as the skies swirl above him.

The Jem'Hadar have paused, standing near the gate and we try to ignore them. But we're being counted. I try to get back to the Restaurant where the next place you go will be an adventure, but can't return there. The Jem'Hadar are still by the gate, a lot of them. Is this it, the end of our universe?

The woman places the book on the reader's chair, her place marked, and goes back to her family. We sit in silence, waiting for them to go, hoping they'll leave without us.

We're sitting amid the swirling skies, not yet the end but inexorable moving towards it. We can't stay here forever. The fear is already back, wondering what comes next. Nobody's ready to find out, not yet. But if they leave us here long enough we will be.

Another person has come forward, a tall man from our group with two small children. They live near us and we hear the children cry at night. He picks up the book, opening it to a different page then turning back to where we'd left off. A large cow is approaching the table.

It's getting late. It's been a long time since breakfast and we're feeling hungry again. But there will be nothing more today. I see a few secret smiles. Our culture had replicators, and we made our food from magic dust. We didn't raise cows. But most of the people in the room would be happy to ask the cow to shoot itself for them now.

But the absurdity of it captures our imaginations. I can see the lumbering cow as it introduces itself.

" 'Good Evening,' it lowed and sat back heavily on its haunches, 'I am the main Dish of the Day. May I interest you in parts of my body?' It harrumped and gurgled a bit, wriggled its hindquarters into a more comfortable position and gazed peacefully at them."

The Jem'Hadar remain at the gate, just watching. The man takes a moment to pause, looking towards them then pointedly turns back to us and begins reading. If this is the end, we will always remember what we were doing. Reading about a cow anxious to fulfill its reason for being in a restaurant watching the end of the universe is a good place to be.

There is a low murmur and dreamy faces, thinking of the cow. Then the Jem'Hadar begin to move away, leaving us alone this time. Arthur and Trillion are horrified and Zaphod is just hungry. Arthur is debating with the cow when Zaphod orders four thick steaks and the cow contentedly lumbers away. The universe is still thundering around them.

Minutes later, the steaks arrive. Ford and Zaphod dig in with enthusiasm. Trillion shrugs and joins them. Arthur stares at his dinner feeling a bit ill. Meanwhile, the band keeps playing. I hear Vic's band, softly playing tunes I'd come to love in the background.

"All around the Restaurant people and things relaxed and chatted. The air was filled with talk of this and that, and with the mingled scents of exotic plants, extravagant foods and insidious wines. For an infinite number of miles in every direction the universal cataclysm was gathering to a stupefying climax."

With the guards gone we let ourselves be there, hear the chatter, smell the scents. If only we could share the food as well, but judging from some of the faces, even that is shared. Even as the universe is about to end we celebrate our own victory over those who own us. They can make us do what they want, but they can't go the Restaurant with us.

Little personal victories mean a lot right now. Who knows if we'll have a chance to laugh again in a week or a month? But now, here, we have a portal to another world they cannot enter. At the Restaurant, we are free.

Max\Vic moves to the stage again. " 'This,' he said, 'really is the absolute end, the final chilling desolation, in which the whole majestic sweep of creation becomes extinct. This ladies and gentlemen is the proverbial "it."'"

"He dropped his voice still lower. In the stillness, a fly could not have dared clear its throat."

There is not a single sound from us, only the strong voice of the man reading, resonating past the gate in a declaration of our own identity.

" 'After this,' he said, 'there is nothing. Void. Emptiness. Oblivion. Absolutely nothing . . .' "

"His eyes glittered again-or did they twinkle?"

" 'Nothing . . . except, of course, for the desserts and a fine selection of Aldebaran liqueurs!' "

After all, it is a restaurant and the food is why you come, not the entertainment. Not that entertainment is a bad thing, but right now food has taken on an abnormally big value to us.

Max\Vic works the audience while the Universe draws to a close. All I can think of is Vic and his jokes and teases to the audience. After awhile, the holographic audience wasn't necessary. He was even better after that, with people to impress. Somehow, he helped us get through some very hard times with his songs. I miss him, especially now when those songs could help so much.

Max/Vic is sitting on a tall stool, chatting away as the universe counts down the last eight minutes of its existence. " 'It's marvelous though,' he rattled on, 'to see so many of you here tonight-no, isn't it though? Yes, absolutely marvelous. Because I know that so many of you come here time and time again, which I think is really wonderful, to come and watch this final end of everything, and then return home to your own eras . . . and raise families, strive for new and better societies, fight terrible wars for what you know to be right . . . it really gives one hope for the future of all lifekind. Except of course'-he waved at the blitzing turmoil above and around them-'that we know it hasn't got one . . . '"

I didn't understand before. But now, with Molly draped across my lap, I know why. Because you have to. Because if you didn't nothing would have any meaning at all. Because even if you can't make it perfect, you want it to be better for your children, even if you are only standing in for someone else. I understand Kira, too. We don't *ever* dare give up, or we've lost even the crumbs of life we have left. Life isn't just food and drink, sleep and work, its dreams and hopes and belief in something. Even when there isn't much to believe in and dreams are hardly real you have to have them.

The waiter arrives with a phone, someone having called Zaphod. The journey planned for him, driven to madness while trapped in a box with the entire universe, is still anticipated. Even if they miss the end of the Universe, Zaphod and company leave the gaudy room in search of escape. They never left Frogstar, where the giant vortex lies, just jumped ahead a few eons in time.

Marvin is parking cars, and having tired of the Heart of Gold, Zaphod and Ford discover a replacement. It is so . . . dark. You can hardly make out the shape. They borrow it for an early departure away from Frogstar.

Ford is impressed. Everything is so totally *black*.

While in the Restaurant, "things were fast approaching the moment after which there wouldn't be any more moments."

The band plays in a frenzy awaiting the end, twenty seconds away. The stony faced members of the Church of the Second Coming of the Great Prophet Zarquon leap ecstatically as the Prophet materializes before them. Hotblack arraigns to put the Black Ship on autopilot so it will crash into the sun when the time comes. The Great Prophet Zarquon is asked to speak, taking the mike and trying. But he's rather befuddled, having just materialized. He doesn't get beyond the first few plans he tries to speak of. Then the universe ends.

The reader closes the book, again noting our place. We want to hear more but are getting restless. People are moving about, stretching and yawning. The intense experience of viewing the End of the Universe has made us tired. We'll take a break and read more later. But for now a lot of people are finding a quiet place to dream of food and drink and a place where when the universe ends you just rotate the Restaurant back in place for the lunch crowd.

o0o

It feels late. It's impossible to tell, with the lights, but my stomach is grumbling so badly it must be near nightfall. We've done all the reading for the day, only a few readers remaining. Tomorrow something will end. It could be the book. It could be much more.

Stomach hurting, I need to move around, fill it with water if there is nothing else. At least we have as much of that as we need. I take my cup, Ezri already half-asleep, and begin the tricky walk across the common area.

Now it's covered with bodies. They had matts, but don't even have that now. They lie, huddled together, sharing pillows to soften the hard floor. I step carefully around and over them, but they have left enough of a path that it isn't hard to manage.

Near the tables, and the water, Cindy is sitting with her baby. Next to her sits Catherine, stroking the child. Ray had mentioned people were doubling up to try and relieve the crowing. Ezri had said Cindy had moved in with the Denebans.

Alessa is fussing like a normal baby. It's odd to see a child who hasn't yet been marred by this place. Maybe Catherine is taking a little solace in her.

I get my water, sitting while I drink the first cup. Cindy watches the gate, distracted by the child's fussing but never taking her eyes off the barrier that locks us inside.

"You've never been out there?" asks Catherine.

"Not once," she says. "I have this picture in my mind, but I can't make it come together. I saw the injuries. They killed my husband. But somehow I have these good memories, with the children playing and laughing and listening to stories."

"Hold onto them." Catherine is also staring at the gate but her expression is calm. "You'll need something good to remember. At least we had a little peace while we've been here."

"I'm scared," says Cindy. "Look, if something happens, well, I think you'd take good care of her."

Catherine pats the baby. "I'll try. But don't worry too much. I've heard rumors."

I edge closer to them and they choose to ignore me.

Cindy still doesn't look down, but there is curiosity now too. "From who?"

"Some calties who were talking. Something about the farm."

Cindy isn't reassured. "I've never been on a farm."

"It could be worse. I could live with a farm."

Cindy just looks at her, finally taking her eyes from the gate. "What was it like before you came here?"

Catherine looks away, down. "There were hundreds of us all taken at once, all civilians. They didn't have anything for us to do, just shoved us into these big pens. Nobody bothered to take names at first, and when they did it was only some of us. The rest, well the rest got shoved back inside. I don't know what they did with them. But we got put in work parties, and it was better that way. We've been hauled a lot of places, just bodies but they feed you if they need you."

She falls silent. Cindy looks at her baby. I think of Yoshi, who will remember nothing of the world that he was born into, who will be a child of defeat and surrender and slavery. I know we'll try, but we won't change that.

"Sometimes I wish she'd never been born. But then I think about Jason, about how all I have left of him is what's in her, and . . . " Her voice breaks, and she's barely holding back tears.

Catherine isn't impressed. "Jason saved her life, probably yours too. He was somebody they wanted and you didn't die before she was born in some pit on Cardassia." She waits until Cindy looks up. "She had a chance to be born. Don't regret that. He even got to meet her." She pauses, staring without sympathy at Cindy. "Take what you can. Just let the rest slide."

"I don't know how to do that." Cindy is staring at the gate again as Catherine stands, patting the baby's head.

Catherine sighs. "Maybe you'll be lucky. Maybe all of us will be lucky. But just don't count on it and you won't be disappointed."

Cindy doesn't move, doesn't take her eyes of the passing guards. The lights blink, our first and only hint of the time. I stand, getting one last drink, and watch as Catherine takes Cindy's hand.

"Gotta go home now. Even you know the rules." I remember Ezri mentioning that Cindy had given up her quarters after Jason's death to be away from the reminders. I'm afraid for her. Most of us have some idea of what we are to them, and what we're likely to be in the future. But Cindy has none, and she is headed for a very hard lesson all at once. I hope Catherine can help her, even if she can no longer remember how to feel sympathy.

"I guess," she says, letting Catherine pull her along, making their way through the mob. I follow at a distance, watching as they disappear together inside their quarters, Cindy decidedly nervous, Catherine carefully resigned.

Such a odd combination, I think. Catherine has seen it all and no longer cares. Cindy is terrified of what we'll find. But somehow, for both of them, this has been a haven.

Maybe for all of us, but that is almost done. The guards count and watch and stare now. Very soon this will be over and we will again face the unknown. Cindy faces it with dread, and fears of the absolutely unknown, Catherine with some sort of resignation.

I remember the box they stored us in before they brought us to this level, how after a while it almost became welcome to be hauled out and face the future.

We are almost there now, again. When the readers are done, the last of out plans will end with the closing of the book.

o0o

Breakfast went fast today. The invisibles with the cart were in a hurry. I keep wondering why as I shift around in my seat, Molly sitting next to me. She's taken to staying near Ezri and I since the details of their parents deaths came out. At least Yoshi is too young to understand. He just misses them.

Most everyone has had a chance to read. Today it has been hard to concentrate. There are more guards and they walk past too often. Sometimes they stop and watch for a moment. The last few people are reading their selections today.

The first is a woman from our group, one of the widows. She stands, curled up on the floor, hardly reacting to anything around her. Her eyes look unfocused, and she steps around and over people without looking at them. A pang of guilt tugs at me. Am I the reason her husband is dead? She is managing, but just barely. It wouldn't take much to push her off the edge.

But she sits carefully and picks up the book. Paying no attention to anyone, she leafs through the pages until she finds her selection. She starts to read, giving the book all of the attention she is capable of sharing.

Zaphod is about to be sent into the Total Perspective Vortex. He's trying to find a way out, but without much success.

"At that moment another dismal scream rent the air and Zaphod shuddered."

" 'What can that do to a guy?' he breathed."

" 'The Universe,' said Gargravarr simply, "the whole infinite Universe. The infinite suns, the infinite distances between them and yourself on an invisible dot, infinitely small.'"

Zaphod's protestations fall on deaf ears, and he's led to a tarnished steel dome in the middle of the plain.

". . . a door hummed open in the side, revealing a small darkened chamber within."

" 'Enter,' said Gargravarr."

"Zaphod started with fear."

" 'Hey, what, now?' he said."

"Now."

Her voice is so strong, with such authority. Inside the story she's come alive. I hear a familiar voice in my head. Miles, once again back to listen. 'Good,' he says. 'She hasn't said a word since they took her husband away.'

The guards are more numerous today, someone almost always near the gate. We're being counted again, but the woman doesn't even notice. Her audience tries to concentrate on the story rather than the guards, but there are many who glance back at our watchers now and then.

Zaphod enters the chamber and discovers it is merely an elevator, which begins to descend toward the Vortex.

" 'I must get myself in the right mind for this,' muttered Zaphod.

" 'There is no right frame of mind', said Gargravarr sternly."

At the bottom of the elevator is a single upright steel box, just large enough for a man to stand in. The Vortex appears very simple. A single thick wire connects the box to a pile of components and instruments.

" 'Is that it?' said Zaphod in surprise."

"'That is it.'"

"Didn't look too bad", thought Zaphod.

He hesitates. But he enters the box.

"After five seconds there was a click, and the entire Universe was there in the box with him."

The guards are getting more active, counting us a second time. She neither hears nor sees them. She closes the book, standing and placing it slowly on the chair. Everything she does is as if she moves in slow motion. She steps around the packed audience again, and settles back on the floor in a small ball.

She exists in her own universe now, too. I try to distract myself from the guilt that in my own way I sent her there as I watch the last person to read approach, moving nervously ahead. But Miles is still there. 'No you didn't,' he whispers in my ear. 'She'll find a way out. Always remember you did the right thing, no matter what it looks like now.'

Something is going to happen soon. Our mood is suddenly very tense. He's older, probably one of those few picked as needed among Sloan's group. He reminds me too much of Miles.

He doesn't pretend he's isn't spooked by the mood. But he turns to a page and begins to read. His voice is nervous and quiet. We have to listen hard to hear.

Early on, aboard the Vogon ship, Arthur struggles to make some sense of the destruction of home . . ."There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth having gone, it was too big . . ."

Our mood is sorrowful, and scared. We lost one home. Soon, I think, we will lose another. So much was left only as memories. But this time I cannot think of Earth. I'm terrified of leaving this place, being scattered to the wind and everything we cling to being lost in the end. He does not read for long, ending a page or so later and placing the book on the chair, standing and looking outside the gate.

We are done. There will be no more reading today. Nobody can really concentrate anymore with the promise of deportation coming so near.

The other books won't be touched. I will not permit it, but nobody really minds. We don't have time for another book now. It is unthinkable that we might never know the end. I have all of them now, even the ones we never read. They were the last books Miles ever brought us. It would hurt too much to open them now. Nobody wants to think about the people who died, but we can't stop remembering either.

Miles has been here all day, just at the edge of my awareness. I even savored our lumpy meal this morning with his help. He keeps whispering. 'Keep believing,' he's saying now, as they count us for a third time today. At least breakfast was hot. It tastes better that way, for all that matters. Right now, taste is nearly immaterial. There is a constant, dim awareness of hunger that never quite goes away.

We're losing track of day and night in the constant brightness. Sleep is hard with the crowding and worse with the hunger. But the most difficult part, never forgotten, is the anticipation. What are they waiting for?

There is a sudden noise as the gate is opened by three Jem'Hadar.

"Bashir to the gate," he orders.

I am sitting with Kira, watching the children play and nervously stand. She squeezes my hand before I slowly walk forward. Ezri doesn't move, but doesn't take her eyes off of me.

Reluctantly, I approach the gate. I'm ushered through. It locks behind me as I stand between them.

I keep thinking of Zaphod walking into the Total Perspective Vortex and coming out sane. Perhaps I can as well, but my enemies are quite real.

Abruptly, my hands are yanked behind me and manacled to a chain around my waist. My right leg is weighted down by a heavy ring around my ankle. They poke me in the back and I slowly follow them, barely managing not to drag my leg.

So much for privileges.

They can't make me hurry. The leg iron is too heavy for that. I drag myself along, hardly noticing where I am. But I know who will be waiting at the end. Eventually we reach Weyoun's office. I recognize it now. I wish I didn't.

I drag myself just inside the door and stop. I wish they'd left the leg iron off. Somehow I'd find a way to get to him before they killed me.

It isn't the time for that, but they can see and feel the anger. I stand still, carefully ignoring Weyoun. I pretend not to hear him when he asks his question. "Have you reconsidered, Doctor?"

Doctor. He must be desperate. I wonder if they are having trouble finding people willing to betray their own after what they've done.

I don't answer.

The Jem'Hadar come closer and I try to back away. I don't mean to. I just can't help it.

"If you don't answer my question you'll be extemely sorry," says Weyoun.

Who this time? "I will not work for you, under any circumstances."

"Any?" asks the murderer. "You can have the best we offer or the worse. You will work, nonetheless."

"I will not do your research," I say as adamantly as I can, nervous of the Jem'Hadar so near.

"It is your choice, then. I think you may wish you had taken my option." He gestures to the Jem'Hadar, who move back. "Take him back."

I don't look at him or my guards. It's hard enough to walk at all with the weight of the leg iron. But at least it's over.

They hurry me on the way back. Outside the gate, they undo the iron and handcuffs and I'm roughly shoved inside. Ezri hurries over when I stumble and helps me up.

"I refused," I say.

"Good," she says, but I can see fear in her eyes. Ezri is there, but not alone. Curzon is keeping her company. As she takes my hand I notice the way she holds herself.

I hope Curzon is enough comfort to get her through today.

Just what have I done to these people, I wonder? In what remains of the six months, will the Founder's die without us to celebrate? I promised Miles to save his children. I hope that I have not broken that promise.

o0o

Everyone knows it will soon be done and we will be gone from here, perhaps to lose each other. We cling to this little illusion of privacy as if it were real. Before even the illusion is gone I want to spend some time alone with Ezri. I take her hand and the children follow. We are in our room when the announcement comes.

"Prisoners, gather your things. Report to the gate."

We have so little, just our bedding and the books. The children have a few small toys and we gather it all into two bundles.

I am determined to take the books. If they confiscate them later I'll know I tried. It is the last piece we have of our society and I will not lose it without a fight.

Ezri carries Yoshi and the smaller bundle. Molly takes my hand. I have most of the books. It's heavy, but I dare not show that to the guards. We pause as we leave behind this last place that is ours.

I came here with only a few things, now all gone. As we make our way slowly towards the gate I wonder what became of them. I carry a treasure in my pack, but it is one of our culture. They have destroyed home, and taken even the tokens we brought to remind us of it.

I want to hold Kukalaka. I want one last reminder of what I was. But then, perhaps a child with nothing else will get him. Maybe that's better.

All the seats are filled, so we find a place on the floor. Everyone is nervous, glancing at the gate as the Jem'Hadar line up next to it. Everywhere, the children cling their parents, not making a sound.

We are afraid. What comes next? Most of those saved from Cardassia have already been removed from the station. As far as we know we're the last group left.

If this is the best they have to offer, what is the worse?

The gate creaks open and we back away as far as there is space for us to move. Those, like us, in the rear are shoved tightly together. This time they are armed with rifles. There is a further retreat as the Jem'Hadar pour inside and push us even closer and to the side.

Molly is holding on so tightly it hurts.

They turn their rifles on us, holding us at gunpoint while they search through the enclosed rooms.

Within minutes they are done. "Up," we're being ordered as we untangle ourselves from each other and our bedding. I pick up Molly, worried she'll get lost.

Slowly, we're pushed out the gate. Neither of us have a free hand to hold onto the other, but I keep as close to Ezri as I can. We form an uneven line and follow the guards down corridors that used to be home.

Now, there is no home.

We are heading toward the turbolifts when we come to a sudden stop. They push us towards the wall.

Something is wrong. We were expecting to be moved below to the holding cells our women were forced to build. They store prisoners in transit there. But what is this? Why are we being stopped near the docking ring?

We wait, trying not to look too scared. Molly is flattened against me, her eyes wide with fear. I concentrate on her own fears to keep mine at bay.

Abruptly, the head guard calls out the first name. One of Sloan's group takes a tentative step forward. The guard ushers him across the corridor.

Are we being picked through again? People hold on to children and press close to family as if it might make a difference.

Jackson's name is called and he steps forward, his eyes locked on his family left behind, towing a large bundle of their possessions along. Then Realand is called and glares at Jeffrey before lifting the boy and taking his first, tentative step forward. The two men, side by side in the line, carefully avoid looking at each other and any accidental touches. Even Jeffrey is cowed by the moment, holding onto Realand as if he can offer protection from the unknown. He ignores his father completely.

I can see Cindy holding her baby, and the way she looks down when Justin's name is called.

Daniel marches across the hallway as if he's been there before.

They have called all the men. I gave Molly's name but did not let go of her, as the others with children have done. I am immensely relieved to be allowed to keep her. But then, they would have had to tear her off my arm she's holding on so tight.

"Ezri Dax Bashir," they call. She is the first of the women. Molly pulls on my hand but does not move.

Ezri steps forward and gives the Yoshi's name. We lock eyes, afraid she'll be sent some other direction. But the guard simply points for her to join us.

We get to stay together for now. I realize I've been holding my breath.

They call the rest of the women and then the older children. We stand nervously watching the guards and the door and the faces.

Brenda stumbles across the hallway, Tessie holding tight as she tries to hold her bundle behind her. I look and her eyes are focused. This time the stumble is only from fear.

Cheryl Jackson, holding Calla and a small bundle is especially nervous being pregnant.

Daniel's wife Catherine walks ahead, her children called individually after all the women, as if she was in a waking nightmare.

One by one they call our names, even the ones they killed. The only ones left out are Miles and Keiko. They are keeping some kind of record. They must have picked them at random and didn't know who was left. The guard ushers us down the corridor, ordering us to wait by a door.

It leads to the docking section. This wasn't what we expected to happen. It shatters the fragile lies with which we have protected ourselves.

We wait, trying not to look too nervous, trying not to fidget. It feels like we've been here a long time. The guards are watching us carefully. Ezri is next to me and the children are clutching us with iron grips.

Then someone is being towed down the corridor under guard. As he gets closer, I realize it's Sloan. I watch as they remove the handcuffs and he starts to slowly stumble towards us.

I can see Nancy from where I'm standing. She doesn't move towards him, but for a moment there is a flash of absolute relief and even joy in her eyes. Then distress, as she watches him stumble ahead, eyes unfocused.

As for Sloan, he looks defeated. For the first time, I believe none of it is an act. There is no special ship waiting to fetch him away at the end of his mission. He has no more options left than we do.

We're still left standing, waiting. Sloan is next to me just staring at something, his eyes not focused.

Nobody has said a word. We're too stunned and wary of the Jem'Hadar to talk. But Sloan hardly notices. He looks at me, or perhaps almost sees me, I can't quite tell. He looks away so fast to his imaginary place that I don't know if he is even aware of where he is.

"There were files, just random ones, and they made me restore them." He's mumbling, not looking at me but I know I'm meant to hear. He looks up again and for a few seconds makes eye contact. "I didn't see any reason for more of us dying over a few files," he says, his voice utterly flat, without any hint of inflection. "There's so many of us gone already, all scattered." His voice trails off, and he goes back to staring.

I'm stunned by what has happened to him, but more worried the guard will notice his talking. "Shhhh . . ." I say. I've got Molly by one hand and am holding our things with the other or I'd make him look at me.

He doesn't hear. But the Jem'Hadar block the corridor behind us and the doors open, then we're pushed towards the docking ring. Sloan follows us, very quiet now.

I'd rather think about Sloan than ourselves. I've decided he must have been caught doing something. Perhaps he tried suicide and it failed. Or maybe they broke him. I've hated him and been afraid of him and now all I can do is pity him.

We're stopping. The corridors are very bright. They've changed them, made them look different. It doesn't feel like we're being taken off the same station we came home to in the Defiant.

Maybe it's a little easier that way.

I notice Sloan is sticking close to me. I'm mostly concerned with not losing track of Ezri and Yoshi.

The air locks open. We move forward slowly. I wonder how many people are saying silent good byes. The people behind us are pushing, and we are shoved inside the ship together.

The light is dim inside. We're funneled to the right, and into another open cell. But Ezri and I and the children are together. Gathering them close, we make a space for ourselves with our bedding bundles.

The door shuts, and it's almost dark. We have no hint of what comes next. But the Jem'Hadar are on the other side again and we relax a little.

"He said I'd be sorry," I tell Ezri. "He said we'd get the worse." Molly has curled up with her brother, too intimidated by the sudden darkness to stray.

"We'll manage," she says, her voice uncertain. "You owe it to them." She strokes Molly's hair as the little girl moves closer. "We owe it to Miles and Keiko," but now I can hear the strength that must carry her through whatever lies ahead.

I'm not sure who she is now. Not Ezri or Curzon or Jadzia. She's familiar enough I'm sure it's one of her hosts, but she moved differently with the children, reacting with an already deeply entrenched sense of protection Ezri is just learning.

I let their parents die. I can't possibly abandon the children, or fail to care about their days.

I'm their father now.

Since Weyoun gave up so quickly, I'm sure they have found someone else. Maybe Sloan will remember what kind of files he restored. I'd like to know what I refused to do. Sloan is mumbling quietly to himself. I can't understand the words, but listen. I'm hoping he'll give me a clue. I'm dreading he's going to say something that will endanger us all, but most of it is gibberish. I think he's in shock. I hope he'll come out of it and remember to be quiet.

It's easier to think about Sloan than what happens when this ship reaches its destination. It's preferable to worrying about what will eventually be on the other side of the airlock.

Miles said it would end. But it will be very bad before that time comes. I know he will forgive us if we can't keep them safe, but looking at Ezri I realize I'd never forgive myself. Which part of her is holding Molly, comforting the little girl as she cries in her sleep?

I hardly know who she is anymore. Before they came, she was becoming Ezri Dax. The combination of youth and age utterly intrigued me. But she is coming apart now, each part of life dominated by a different personality. The woman who tenderly holds the children is different from the one who would kill anyone who tried to hurt them. She is strong and tender and wise, but never at the same time.

I miss the woman I knew, the one they've shattered into pieces.

I put my arm around her. She settles in my arms. But it isn't Ezri. She feels wrong.

I hold her anyway. She's managing the best she can. That's all any of us can do.

o0o

The door has not been opened. The ship has not moved. But our eyes have had time to adjust to the dim light and we've discovered the water and supply of rations locked inside with us.

Ray is lying down with his wife and daughter. Like a lot of the people here they have escaped into sleep.

Sloan has quit mumbling to himself. Ezri and the children are curled up together sleeping.

I have to move around a bit. I can't stand to sit any longer.

I notice Sloan has gotten up as well and is standing near me, his expression empty.

They're probably listening. I don't care anymore. "We thought you were dead," I say.

"I guess I'm hard to kill," he says, tapping his temples suggesting my own attempt at questioning him. "You and . . . " He pauses, taking a deep breath and banishing the nightmare for a little while. "You should know."

He demands I look at him. He gazes down at his hands. I nod. We are entering dangerous territory and must take great care.

I ask, with my hands, which he is, real or clone.

He thinks about it. "After what happened, would you call me Luther?" he asks, heavy with emotion that is very real.

But his hands say the rest. He signs "Weyoun" and then "dead". Then he points to himself and signs "real".

I understand something. This is the Sloan that once believed, and had that belief ripped from him by 31. This is the man that gave up family and friends in the end, and was left alone with nothing but 31 to believe in.

But they existed only to save the Federation. And the Federation is gone, burned to ash and dust. Even the dream is fading. By the time this ends there will be nothing left by stories of who we were, the legends of a lost history.

We have all lost too much. He has lost everything. Now he turns to us to find a little of the meaning that makes it worth going on.

He closes his eyes and looks away. He's not in shock anymore, just deeply depressed.

"I fixed their files so they let me live," he says, his tone flat, lost. "It was mostly patient files," he continues, staring at his hand as it starts to tremble. He moves a little away, looking across the cell at nothing.

His voice is very distant. "I was in the process of disabling the main computer when they took the station, when they . . . "

He stops, looking away, but before he does there is a glimpse of hell in his eyes. "At least I shut it down, and most of the files were damaged." He shakes his head. "I'm a lab technician. I think I did pretty good for someone who didn't know what he was doing."

The last part was for my benefit. Either he'd been planting files, or he had been doing a shutdown. It didn't really matter. He'd lied to them and they'd bought it. Sloan knew what he was doing. He just got caught. I look at him, staring at something invisible.

He got them to believe the lie, but the price was high. There are tremors in his hands. He moves constantly, head and hands and feet. He can't keep his eyes focused for very long.

I wonder what they did. I don't believe his behavior is an act. He'll never talk about it, but it has destroyed him.

I remember the man who kidnaped me, and who ruined my sleep for months waiting for him to come again. This was not the same man. Perhaps, as it destroyed what 31 had made him it took away the coldness they had put there too. Without knowing, they had made him into the man he claimed to be.

I like Luther Sloan. I still worry he's been damaged beyond repair. I am relieved to see enough is left to salvage.

Is 31 is still around, somehow lurking in the darkness in their special ships? I want it to be true, but doubt it. What's left, the Federation gone, its buildings and people left behind to rot. There is nothing to protect anymore. But there is revenge.

I'll never ask Sloan about it. If they don't know about 31, I'm not going to tell them.

Abruptly, the ship jerks. People wake up, start looking around. Ezri sits up, arms encircling the children, gripping them so hard they squirm. It breaks my heart to see the terror in her eyes as the slow vibration of the ship's engine pulsates around us.

What will become of her, of us, if anything happens to these children to whom we owe such a terrible debt?

We are no longer docked.

One thing ends. Another begins.

End, Part 2, Chapter 14 of Surrender


	15. Surrender Part 3 Chapter 15

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 3 – Slavery

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Chapter 15

When the ship first left dock there was a rush of words, but now no one is talking. We sit together in silent apprehension afraid of what comes next. The children are huddled up to Ezri, though Molly is using my lap as a pillow. Sloan is nearby, for once absolutely silent. I lean my head back against the wall, listening to the sounds of the ship and hoping to find some clue to our destination.

The ship hasn't gone into warp. We must be far enough away from the station for it to be safe. We could not tell what kind of ship we boarded at the dock.

The food is being rationed carefully. There wasn't very much, and we have no guess if there has been a ration cut or we will have a short trip. In any case, we have no real way of telling how much time has gone by.

In a way it doesn't matter too much. Nobody has had any appetite since we left the station.

I sit here in the dark, Molly sound asleep, and tell myself that in less than six months the monsters will die and we will have a chance at freedom. I keep reminding myself of Kira's words that we can never give up hope, or it is over.

But . . . how do you hope when home is gone, your people scattered everywhere? Even if the Dominion crumbles when their gods pass into dust, what will be left in its wake but ruin and destruction?

I'm not a student of history. But I know enough of it to guess that the end will only mark the start of a new kind of misery. The other mutants predicted that this war would end in defeat, with billions of dead and generations of slavery. Nobody wanted to believe it. But what if they were right?

They're dead now. They weren't allowed to live to see how close their prediction might be. I wonder how Jack managed when his world collapsed around him. I hope they didn't scare Patrick too badly. He panicked so easily, like the grown up child he was. At least Serena might be alive, probably trapped in a life like this if she survived.

Don't think of them, or the family and friends they destroyed. Hold onto memories, but the ones still here matter more.

Molly is stirring, waking from a nap. She rolls over and looks up at me. Half-asleep, she murmurs, "Daddy," before she closes her eyes again.

I know she isn't seeing me, but someday she will. I never wanted children. Even after Tessie, I dreaded having to watch as her youth was destroyed by this nightmare. Now, after our vows to Miles, we have no choice but raise their children.

It is unbearable to think of breaking my promise to Miles. That alone sustains me now, the absolute need to believe that we can keep our promise, that out future will allow it to come to be. I still can't bear to open the books, even if we could see to read them. But even rolled in a blanket, along with the children we now call our own, they remind me of the debt I owe him.

People tense as the sense of motion changes, and the ship begins to slow down. We can feel the first pulls of atmospheric contact. We are landing.

Somewhere nearby, in the darkness, Kira says, "They're taking us to Bajor." This is the first time she's spoken. I had no idea she was so near.

It makes a bitter kind of sense. Bajor and the wormhole is their most heavily defended territory. Weyoun will be here. Perhaps he doesn't want me to get too far away and the rest will continue to serve as hostages.

It's almost worth it if we stay together, if we aren't torn from the only family we have. It will make my life harder, but it would be unbearable to be alone.

And when *he* makes his new demands, gives me new orders, what can I do now that the children's lives depend on my actions as well? Can I break my promise to their father, forged in blood and death, or must I betray my own oath to never cooperate with them again. Will I sacrifice myself to save the innocent, like the Man in Black did to save his Buttercup?

I feel the thump as the ship lands, a sudden vibration rising and then fading as the engines are shut down. We watch the door, suspended somewhere between fear and relief that the suspense will be over soon.

In the dark hold, Ray hurriedly passes out the remaining rations and they are stashed into bedding. We wait for the unknown, surrounded by darkness.

Eventually, after a lifetime, there is a groan and the door opens.

Outside, there is light, but it's far off and not much brighter than inside the hold. The Jem'Hadar order us out, and we slowly move towards the door. One by one, children and bundles in hand, we pass through the hatch and are ushered to one side.

Now we are outside on a dark night. It's comfortably warm, and the stars are shining above. Three moons light the night sky. Under different circumstances, it would be a pleasant evening.

Guards push their way into the still open hatch, probably looking for stragglers. But they quickly return, having found none. They stand in front of us, rifles at ready but not pointed. Their leader, holding a padd, calls out names again, men first as before.

"Bashir," he barks. Ezri takes Yoshi, and I step forward, leaving Molly staring at me while she holds Ezri's leg.

The man in charge is human, dressing in a dark uniform. On the station we saw the calties but they didn't interact directly with us.

I don't look back. I can't bear to remember them like that. I follow a guard, surrounded by unreality, as he points me to a brightly lit, half-covered building. Inside, I stop, unsure of what they want, but I'm pointed towards an "x" marked on the floor, dropping my bedding as ordered.

Almost immediately the scan begins and I notice the cone shaped device above my head. A sensation of intense itching passes down my skin as the scan slowly proceeds, and next to me the bedding is scanned by another device.

I make an urgent, silent plea to anyone listening. *Don't take the books.* We need them to remind us that this will end some day. We need them to remember a little of what they'd destroyed.

The guard that led me inside is waiting. "There," he says, pointing with the point of his bayonet to a machine, also marked with an "x" in front of it on the floor. Hesitant, I pick up the bedding but there is no objection. I stand on the "x", nervous as another guard approaches. My right hand is grabbed and shoved inside the machine, which locks it inside.

The guard pushes a button. My hand feels very warm and tingles a bit, but there is no pain. A minute later it's released.

I can't take my eyes off my hand. Now there is a design marked on it, one of the Bajoran caste symbols. I don't remember what it was called, but I do remember the position it had in the scheme of things.

Weyoun said we'd know the worse. I'm still staring at it as I'm urged on, grabbing my bundle and being pushed out into the night again.

A roughly built cage sits near, and I'm shoved inside. The door shuts and locks. I pull my bedding to the side, sitting on it and wait. The caltie guards herd a portion of our group, mostly men, to the door and they drag in their bundles, looking stunned as well. We all wait until the gate shuts and locks before we move. We silently compare our hands, and all bear the same symbol.

Ray moves near me, his eyes locked on the door. There is more to worry about than obscure symbols on our hands. There are the others, still waiting in the line. He must be thinking of Raina and Kara. I keep remembering how Molly and Kara like to play as one by one the men are shoved inside. I especially worry about Yoshi. He's just a baby.

Jackson stumbles in later, moving slowly, almost in a trance as he stares at the locked door. Realand arrives soon after, without Jeffrey, with much the same look. I can't miss the worry, the obvious care he has developed for the little boy who has transcended childhood. He must hope that Jeffrey is cowed enough or has learned enough not to challenge the guards. Sloan makes his way inside very slowly, not even looking at his hand. Daniel's whole manner is resigned, shoulders slumped, expecting nothing.

The first woman stumbles inside, Cindy Carlan. She is without the baby, and I glance at Ray again, suddenly grasping my hand. Several women later, Ezri walks in, standing next to me, joining our quiet vigil as she stares at the door. Brenda is also without Tessie, and as she stands next to Ezri, Ezri grasps her arm to steady her. Catherine joins Cindy, lending quiet support as Cindy stares at her marked hand, obviously in shock. Cheryl Jackson presses close to her husband, eyes also locked on the door, terror written in their eyes. She is rubbing her belly with his hand, perhaps trying to find some solace in the child she still carries. Raina is one of the last, Ray grabbing her hand as she comes near, pulling her to him.

All the adults are here now. But we wait, silent, edgy, for the children. They have not separated us since our original capture. Every eye is on the door, listening closely for the sound of their voices or the small taps of their feet.

The universe slowly ends around us, time stretching ever slower. But then the restaurant rotates back for the next day's customers. The door opens. Our children, herded together with the older ones carrying the babies, are pushed inside. They stay as they were, crowded together, until the gate is locked. Then, like a small whirlwind, they rush to family, Cindy and Brenda hurrying forward for their children, taking them from the Denebans older children who are carrying them, the small ones who can walk grasping parents as if they will never let go.

Calla runs straight to her mother and is scooped off the ground and buried in her parents arms. Jeffrey, standing by himself, just watches Realand, waiting. Realand nods and the boy goes to him, head down. But there is clear relief in Realand's eyes.

Molly is carrying her brother, and Ezri snatches him as she collapses against us. Kneeling down between our bedding we hold them close, Molly burying her face in our arms.

It isn't until after we've assured ourselves that they are not hurt that we notice their hands. Even little Yoshi has a small mark on his hand. Not even the smallest children are spared.

When they were pushed inside the cage I was overwhelmed by a joy and a relief so intense I will never forget it. None of us will. Cindy is holding Alessa, gently rocking the baby, her face covered with tears. I can't cry, the joy too intense to react at all. In that eternity endured before the restaurant rotated back into place, all I could do was ask, with growing desperation, the questions that still haunt me. What if they had no use for children? Had I somehow failed to keep my promise to Miles?

Then the door is pulled open and the gruff voice orders us out, once again. Slowly we file outside into the star and moon-lit night, herded towards a darker area with the outlines of a large building in the center. Stopped in front of the dark shape, a large door is opened without anyone touching it, and we are pushed inside.

"This is your assigned sleeping area. Your duties will be explained in the morning."

The door shuts and locks. It is pitch dark inside. Molly is hanging onto my hand with a death grip and won't let go. She just grips a little tighter as I try to loosen the hold so I can put down the bedding. I never want to let her or Yoshi out of my sight again.

Then, after the initial shock, we start moving around, exploring the place by feel.

"I found matts," Ray exclaims.

We follow the sound. We drag matts off the pile, people grabbing them as they are tossed down. At first, we divide them one per family, but in the end there is enough for all to have their own. Grouping them together in the dark, each family begins arranging their bedding, and quite suddenly the room becomes very quiet. After all the fear, emotional exhaustion quickly takes its toll.

I'm careful to hide the books between a couple of the matts. We spread out our bedding, the children cuddling close to us.

Ezri has not said a word. Outside, in the light, she had the eyes of a tiger protecting her young. I was terribly afraid I might lose all of them if the guards touched the children. But with Yoshi and Molly near, she gives into the exhaustion and I can feel her collapse against me. Adjusting herself, she pulls the children close and takes my hand, draping my arm over the rest.

I pull the blanket over us, and kiss her gently. "I guess this is home," she says. It's Ezri. I'm relieved about that. Right now, I especially need her.

But I could swear that Miles is standing next to us, invisible in the gloom. 'Not forever. Don't give up, no matter what. It will end.'

"For now," I say.

The room quiets quickly, the only sound the now accepted murmur of moving bodies. The children are already asleep, soon followed by the rest as sleep draws us in.

Morning will answer the questions we dread, but for a little while we allow ourselves to rest, having at least survived the journey.

o0o

The clanging of a loud bell jars us awake at dawn, different than the one on the station. Groggy, we take a second to realize where we are. Light is filtering inside the building from high windows at the top of the plain dark walls. The soft rays of dawn fill the room. I don't remember when I last woke to a planetary dawn.

For the first time, we look around the room. The walls are straight and high, leading to a ceiling with windows covered with a heavy grid along the sides. There is nothing in the room but a large bin to the side, and a small alcove apparently for our personal needs. The floor is covered with some kind of hard, but slightly spongy material, and the mats stick to it. At one end is a tightly fitting door that lets in no light.

One of Sloan's group, gazing around the room from its center, says with resignation, "All they need are the stalls and the horses."

One of Miles men, still sitting on his matt nearby, says quietly, "Maybe we're the horses."

We are living in a barn, housed like livestock. Is that all we are now, animals to be used until our usefulness is done? The image takes a minute to sink in and we sit back down to wait.

"Outside, now," orders a voice over a loudspeaker. It is hidden somewhere in the ceiling. We stand, slowly, more than a little apprehensive.

The door opens to the first rays of dawn. Silhouetted against the pale sky are groups of other nearly identical buildings. Hesitantly, we make our way outside.

Using their rifles, the guards motion for us to line up. They take a quick count and back away as someone approaches from a distance. He's wearing much nicer clothes than we have. His wears no beard. He steps towards us with two armed guards to protect him.

He is human. He needs them.

"Today your duties will be explained," he says.

A few people mutter things under their breath. But very quietly.

"Follow me," he instructs, expecting obedience. Nervous, we follow his guards, always positioned between us, trailed by a larger group of Jem'Hadar.

Watching him as he strides ahead, I wonder if that was the great prize Weyoun was offering, the chance to be visibly hated by my own. I wonder how long this one will last once the Jem'Hadar are gone.

But now that there are the children, what if Weyoun asks again? It is only a matter of time and will I have to agree for their sakes or break my promise to Miles?

Ahead is an open area covered with a roof, and we stop in front of it. At one end is a large pot of sorts, heat radiating from the base. He looks us over and points at three of the men, casually noting, "You," as he passes them. "You work down there," he says, pointing to the end of the shed with the pot.

All three of them are Sloan's people, and I watch as they obey his order, moving slowly towards the pot but without any hesitation. What happened to us in the last months that we accept the orders of a traitor with so little fuss? They lost more people than our group. Maybe they think there are already enough dead and lost, that to stay alive matters more than useless things like a pretense of respect.

The rest of us move towards the middle of the shed. Someone is waiting, and I note his hand bears the same symbol as ours. "The warming bins are started first," explains the man. He looks away from the traitor, not willing to look at us.

Maybe he'd been where we stood before and remembered the way it felt to be treated like this. Maybe he'd gone beyond feeling anything.

A series of bins sit near the large pot, a pale glow reflected around them from a series of pipes placed underneath. We watch as the red glow grows brighter under the bins. The three chosen before wait near the large pot, watching as the other man joins them. He uncovers one of the bins, set at the end, and we are suddenly very interested. It is full of the mush we're very familiar with by now, and it's been a long time since I've had anything to eat. He has them filling a bin of bowls with a soup from the large pot, then dropping in a chunk of the mush. I doubt I'm the only one whose mouth is watering.

We hardly need any encouragement to line up. The three men hand each of us a bowl and spoon, along with a cup we may fill ourselves. It's still only water, but by morning even that is welcome.

We sit on the bare soil of a floor to eat. When we finish each bowl is dropped into a bin of water to soak and we're directed outside again.

The sun is up. It is a comfortable temperature. If we weren't *here* it would be a perfect day.

All but the smallest children are sorted out, with a parent staying with each of them. Many more of the adults are added to the group, and they are told to follow yet another guide, trailed by guards.

Cheryl Jackson, alone among the others, is exempted. She is ordered to return inside, her belly bulging with child. The babies and toddlers are send inside with her. Cindy looks back, her baby staying behind, as if she wished she could still fill that role.

"That group will work the fields. This group is to be trained as food servers."

Ezri disappears with the children under our care to be field labor.

The rest of us are divided into smaller groups, and I'm among those sent back inside to change. Cheryl and the children look away this time, but there is no privacy for any of us now. And it feels good to put on clean clothes. We cautiously return outside to wait.

"Those of you assigned serving duty will change to clean clothes before breakfast in the future," we're informed.

I guess I'm a server. I try to remember the people who'd brought our food on the station. After awhile they became invisible. I guess that is our function in this place.

The day proceeds slowly, each of us designated as servers sent with someone already trained the first day. We're told how to measure the amount per bowl, and warned to follow the rules. We don't talk to the other prisoners, or make any special contact with them or we'll be punished.

We spend all morning serving breakfast after the bins of mush have been heated and the broth dispensed into the large insulated jars.

Mid-day is spent cleaning the sheds.

Using the rest of the bins of soaked grain, we serve them dinner in the evening. We look longingly towards the food, but dare not touch it for ourselves.

The people we're feeding have different symbols on their hands, and I recognize some of them, too. I guess they are considered skilled labor, and worth a little more in the scheme of things.

It is made very plain that we are the very bottom. After we're done serving, we clean the bins and jars, and start the next days mush soaking, already delivered when we arrive after serving dinner. Each bin is filled to a line with cracked grain of some kind, and then with water and covered. We leave the shed, and help the others who are finishing with the cleaning of other things used in the camp.

The work is hard, the bins heavy, and the hours long. We are exhausted by the time we finish for the day. Finally, the rest come back from the field, and we are served our dinner. It is more of the mush, now cold, dropped into bowls of broth. By then it's sticky and floats in stale lumps. It's turned both slimy and chunky. One last bin is saved for breakfast tomorrow.

We eat it anyway. It's hard to wait so long to eat, but harder when you have to feed others before. But we are strictly forbidden to eat any of the food. We will be deported if we're caught. Even the stale, sticky mush we eat tastes acceptable by then.

After eating, a load of vegetables brought from the field is washed and cut up. They are added to the large pot along with more water. Only then does our day end.

It's almost dark. We're ushered back into our barn and the doors are locked. There is just enough light to find our bedding and mats. I check the books and they are undisturbed. An extra ration is still there. But I'm not hungry. I'm too tired to be hungry.

Ezri and the children are dirty and sweaty and exhausted. They fall asleep immediately. I hold them, finding some comfort in knowing they are here.

Historically, slaves have been allowed families. It gives them a reason to keep going, and something to lose if they fight back too hard.

I understand now. We are fed well enough, and despite the austere nature of our barn, we have reasonable shelter. The hours are long, but the work isn't overly difficult. But every second out of this building is controlled. We aren't allowed to talk, or touch any of the food we dispense.

We are invisible to everyone, even the other prisoners.

Tomorrow will be the same as today, as will every other day that follows until . . . Short of an accident, we could be doing this for a long, long time. Almost nothing is said by the others, lost in exhaustion, the realization that our new life has already been began, and the seasons will change little about the days. But I glance towards Luther, huddled with Nancy. Somehow, I must believe that when the Founders die, we will find a way out of this.

If not, what is there to go on for?

But Ezri pulls me towards her, the children snuggled together behind me on the warm night. She curls next to me. "Maybe we can find the beach again," she suggests.

Not tonight, not with so many people so near, and so tired. But we've gotten used to other things and this will be just another one to accept as part of life.

I kiss her, for a flash the trees are there, the ocean splashing nearby, the fine sand of the sandbar sticking to my side. She presses against me, holding my hands. "Moonlight," she says. "Gentle waves. We should sleep well."

Above me are the moons of Bajor, and the ocean's salty tang scents the air.

Sleep wins and I curl up with my family for the night in a place that is ours alone.

o0o

Once, we had walls to separate us. Each family had a little place to call their own, grey walls to stare at but they defined a certain space that we could claim as home.

Now the walls are gone. We place our matts together, leaving space between them for others to move about, and call them boundaries.

Once, we had walls to give us a place to be alone, to dress, to sleep, to visit our respective beaches. Now we have blankets, and the mutual agreement not to hear and not to see. We cannot hide now, our lives lived openly in view of all, but we make our own walls.

Once the people with Sloan were strangers. Now, living so close it is impossible to not know them all. Now we have started the process of making new friends. On the station, with the mass of bodies and the uncertain future, no one wanted to make a connection to someone who might be gone in a few days. But here we are marked and grouped and stored together. Now, the group that had been mine and the one Sloan had been added to are slowly merging together.

I've kept Sloan's secret, though I suspect a few have guessed. I don't know if it was for him or for Nancy. I like Nancy. She is one of the few here who has retained a trace of real compassion for others.

Ezri is watching Brenda, but does not intrude. Brenda and John Gregson, one of the widowers among Sloan's group, are sitting together, just quietly talking. We grant them the only privacy we can, that of distance. Tessie is playing nearby and Ezri is trying not to look. With someone to hold her Brenda is improving, sharing her grief and blankets. You can't be alone here. I don't think it's love, but Gregson's wife died a month ago and at least they can share the pain they hold inside. Since she met him, she's not disappeared into herself once.

Here that could easily be fatal.

Cindy is exhausted and sleeping, Catherine holding Alessa, the baby snuggled in her arms. Perhaps the two women remind each other that no matter how hard life becomes, there is occasionally some joy. Cindy is both friend and daughter, the child never lacking someone to give her attention. Catherine's stern warnings have made Cindy's adjustment a little easier and Alessa has reawakened a spark of life inside Catherine that was almost lost.

Alessa will always have family as long as they can be there.

Even Realand isn't alone. I don't know why he took over Jeffrey, but now the boy is all he has left. I would have killed him had the man not stopped me, but it changed things. Jeffrey lost one father, but now he has another.

We are becoming our own society with our own rules again. They even allow me to be a part, even if I still stand near the edge. I'm not forgiven, nor will I ever be, but in this brutal world we've come to live in sacrifice, even of friends, matters more. The guards kill who they want, when they want. That is the basic truth of the world we live in now.

I didn't understand that before. I don't know if they really did either. But I can't say what I would have done, now, or what I'll do if-when-he drags me back to face him again.

How many will die then? Or would it be better to let them exile me forever than murder my own children.

I wish Kira was still here. I'd like to ask her. But she's been sent away because she's not human. This is a human group. We are separated strictly by species with only a few exceptions based on marriage, like Ezri.

I am afraid for her, were I to be pulled away. We serve the other groups, a smattering of species scattered over half the alpha quadrant. But aside from her I've seen no Trills. Would they ship her away, or let her stay as the mother of human children?

Work took longer than usual today. Everybody is tired and ready to sleep. But Ezri trails her finger inside my clothes. "Let's see, dawn, gentle waves, and birds."

Snuggled inside our blankets, I start to undo her clothes. "I'm for night, lots of stars, birds but the tide should be out."

She is done undoing mine, her fingers reaching inside, already teasing me. "Ok, night, but I want waves."

I reach inside and tickle her back, pulling her to me. "Agreed. Night, stars, birds and waves."

I slide off her clothes, leaning up close, teasing with my tongue, as her breasts are uncovered. The stars are shining overhead. The night birds sing their special songs, and the waves swirl around the sandbar. We are at the beach, our beach, and the rest of them have faded away.

o0o

The earliest glow of dawn is lighting the ceiling, not yet morning, but I'm already half-awake. Ezri is snuggled very close, and one of the children has rolled on top of the blankets wrapped around us so we can't move. It's so much warmer now. I'm getting uncomfortably hot but don't want to wake anyone.

Sleep is important. We're expected to work hard, and without it we fall behind and someone gets punished. I'd like to get back to the pleasant dream I was having about the beach on Risa and finish counting Ezri's spots. But all that is wiped away when the morning alarm goes off.

Molly jumps, and the blanket is loosened. The little girl sits up, looking about in panic. Even children can see it's too early.

It's only been a couple of weeks, but the routine is well defined. It's only when it changes that we are alarmed. Why are they waking us up so early?

The alarm rings a second time, this time longer. Almost everyone is awake, sitting up on their beds and staring at the door. There is no conversation. Children have claimed the comfort of their parents laps, and the adults hold onto them with grim faces.

I keep thinking there has been no trouble-certainly not from us. But we paid for Odo's vendetta before he did. They don't tolerate resistance, and I've heard a few rumors.

I wish I could tell them just to wait, that our time will come. There is no need to make life more miserable that it already is. Most of the time the guards never find the actual guilty party. They take someone that was near enough to whatever was done and make them an example. Then they cut rations for everyone else in the group to make sure it's not forgotten.

We know, because we don't have to serve them dinner then. And everyone has heard about the compound beyond the gates further along the pathway we are by now familiar with. Inside the gates, few ever leave once they have entered.

Has there been some trouble? Is the early waking some sort of punishment we haven't heard of yet?

The first bright rays of dawn are emerging when the doors are opened.

"Out," orders the head guard, and we straggle past them into the still gloomy morning.

"Line up," orders another guard, and we form a line in front of our barn.

Standing near the door, I watch as the Jem'Hadar carry several containers inside. They reappear too quickly to have had time to search, and seal the door shut behind them. Then they trigger the devices, and there is a low pitched whine I can hear more than most.

It's giving me a headache, and I'm trying to ignore the pounding when I suddenly understand what they are up to. A fine wisp of some pungent chemical is scenting the air. They are fumigating our barn.

I wonder how long the smell will hang on, if it will damage the books or soak into the blankets so completely that it will come to be a part of the overall smell of unwashed bodies and general grime that we no longer notice.

On the station, despite promises, showers had been sporadic and there had been none at all at the end. But the station was relatively pristine. Here, crowded even closer, we work in dirt and mud and the things that live in them. A small black bug, much like a flea, has come to join us. We don't know any other name for them, so we call them fleas. I don't mind the smell of the chemical or the morning surprise if they eradicate the pesky things. They probably carry disease, or they wouldn't bother. But tonight the reasons they've rid us of the pests will be immaterial.

Then a small vehicle rolls into our compound, setting up in an open spot near our work area. Several people, all prisoners but none human, quickly assemble a tent of sorts around it, pulled down from a storage area on top. We can see bright lights, bodies moving around, the shadows erecting something inside.

The guards pick the first four of us to go inside, Cindy and her daughter, Brenda and Tessie. They follow with great hesitation, but don't dally.

Cindy has already finished her crash course in surviving captivity.

We are moved forward, sent inside the tent four at a time. I wish I was closer, and the suspense would be over a little sooner. But it proceeds relatively quickly. The first four sent inside reappear with clean clothes, relieved to be released, but unhurt by the procedure. I relax a little.

They pick through the line, taking children first, accompanied by their mothers this time. I watch as Molly and Yoshi hurry outside, their coveralls worn but clean. Ezri nods, flashing me a look of reassurance. Her hand smooths the soft fabric of her new clothes.

I get clean clothes when I serve, but the rest don't. I know that none of this is for our personal benefit, but just the same there is a secret satisfaction that they are doing something that makes life a little better. Ezri isn't the only one that is playing with the soft fabric. And nobody will miss the fleas.

Finally they get to the men and my curiosity is satisfied. I'm almost impatient to go, noticing the bugs as they crawl in my hair. But I'm in one of the last groups to be chosen. Jackson looks towards his wife and daughter as he's pulled out of line. We follow with anticipation rather than fear.

We enter the first room, curious and still a little anxious. It is lit from bright artificial light. The harsh light looks odd here, where nothing is illuminated except by sun and moons.

In the corner is a bin marked "Contaminated Items" in Standard, and we're ordered to undress and toss our clothes in the bin by one of the calties, standing by the door. We glance at him, but only briefly. It's hard not to hide the hatred. But if any of them are killed we'll pay, so for now we obey them as if they were Jem'Hadar.

I'm past being bothered by my nakedness. In our barn, now denied any personal privacy, we have made new rules. We give ourselves the only privacy we have by not looking. After awhile, there is nothing of any interest to see anyway. And it's been muddy lately and I've been on scrub. I willingly surrender the filthy clothes. My arms are clean from the elbows down, but the grime is visible on my skin above that. I can't tell what else there is. Maybe there is a sonic shower.

We're ushered into the next room. Another of the calties points at a scanner and we grasp the bar as ordered, each in turn. I glimpse at the results as I pass the control. They are looking for internal parasites. I pass. But Jackson doesn't, and he's detained while a hypo is pressed to his neck.

We pass into the next little room, and something is injected just into the skin. The caltie explains it will prevent us from being infested with various bugs. My hopes of a shower are fading, and the abrupt manner of the calties is annoying. We have to leave them alone, but we don't have like it. I ignore the tone, giving him a look of disgust, and he rushes us into the next room.

There is a table with boxes of clean clothes. I pick my size and dress, waiting by the door. The clothes feel good, softer than the ones in our bin. I suspect they are newer or cleaner. I'm still disappointed there was no shower.

I return to the line. The sun is casting a rosy glow over the place. I like it better than the bright lights.

The calties and their equipment go back into the vehicle, and it leaves.

It's time for our normal waking. I wonder if we'll be locked out until evening. The head guard eyes us as we wait. Abruptly, he barks, "Your monthly decontamination is done. You will assemble for breakfast."

We're dismissed, and the early crew, released first, already has our breakfast prepared. We sit in the relative cleanliness of the tent eating our mush, and enjoy our soft clothes.

We sit as families, children close to parents, giving each other the only comfort we can in the open glare of the guards.

But where I'm sitting, I can see Realand. Jeffrey is near him, attentive, watching as people pass. Realand appears to be concentrating on his food, but I can see his careful watch on the boy, and a certain satisfaction as well.

Then Jackson, getting himself another cup of water, passes by. Jeffrey looks up, fixing his father with an intense look of hatred. Jackson hurries by, but Jeffrey follows him with his eyes, Jackson nearly tripping over several people in his haste to get past. Then the boy smiles, a curious combination of childish glee and malevolence, looking thoughtfully at the guards waiting outside. Realand watches with what appears to be satisfaction.

Jackson doesn't see, barricaded behind his wife and the others but I cannot help but wonder what Jeffrey is planning. Realand has the boy under complete control now, Jeffrey staying close to the only father he knows. But Jeffrey is learning well, and I fear Carl will pay for his anger.

But not today. Ezri runs her hand down the soft fabric, and I am amazed at the softness of my own new clothes. It's ashamed they'll be dirty by evening. But at least the fleas will be gone. Maybe, if they do it often enough, they won't ever come back. That alone is worth putting up with a morning like this.

o0o

We don't talk at work. Sometimes, when Sloan is working near me he'll use one of our hand signs, but not often. They are private in a place where privacy is almost unknown. We keep them for things which are important.

But others talk. We never look like we hear, but the rumors are as numerous and varied here as on the station. We share them in whispers, compare them, treat them like forbidden fruit. Not even the middle of a prison is isolated enough to deny the news.

We've heard about the local Bajorans.

Two days ago, the air was smoky and brown, burning brush and wood and buildings in the distance where there used to be a Dominion processing plant.

Sabotage means death. Yesterday, after dark when we were locked inside our barn, we heard the transports as they brought in prisoners, lots of them. They didn't come here. They went to the barred and closed section where you don't come back.

They probably will deport most of them. Off world, they'll be of some use for a little while. Here, they might have friends to avenge them.

But some of them will die today. Breakfast was early and we were assembled to watch as they were marched out of the compound, a reminder to everyone of the price of resistance.

And it is a reminder of the advantages of loyalty as well. The first group, numbering among them a scattering of species, are the women. All are young and attractive, already dressed in the provocative and flashy clothes that will be their uniforms. Visible on the bare, clean flesh are decorations, some obscene, probably made much as our hand marks were forged. This is their lot, to offer their bodies to the calties as rewards for their loyalty.

I wonder if Marta is satisfied. At least she got to marry him.

They walk past with heads down, ignoring us, and I imagine they wish nobody was here to watch. But they are lucky, just as we were. If they did not have the brothel, they would face death or deportation.

Slowly, they disappear from view. Realand is watching, others as well, and I wonder if they are thinking of Marta too.

But the women are replaced by others, men and women, filthy and beaten and half-naked in their rags. Their hands are bound and they stumble forward without looking where they are going. They are cleaning house, eliminating those they've already used up.

Here and there among them are those added recently, probably those to be executed for the fire. They stumble too, still too disbelieving, not yet resigned. I can't tell if they show pride or not because I can't look at their eyes.

Weyoun said we'd have the worse, but these doomed souls stumbling towards their execution are a reminder that he will not give up all his options. No matter how bad our lives may seem, there is something worse to threaten.

The next group are the hardest to look at, recent arrests, all marked with the emblem of kasari, heading for the transports assembled to take them from home. They are the deportees. Most of them are likely blameless, but happened to live in the same town, or have as friends people who are believed to have burned and killed.

No doubt, some of those assumed guilty were, but proximity is all that matters. I wonder if any of the torch bearers are hiding now, what goes through their minds when they hear the transports lift off taking friends and neighbors who's only sin was to know them into exile and slavery. How do they live with themselves, or do they count it as just another price to pay.

At least, someday, these people may have the chance to come home. In their own ways they are more fortunate than us.

The parade continues, Bajoran families crowding together, holding onto children, driven along like animals, taking nothing of their own. Jackson holds Calla close, Cheryl's hand resting on her prominent belly as if it will shield the child inside from this spectacle. Molly just watches, Yoshi hiding behind her. Ezri stares, and I wonder if she's replaying the moment in the corridor when we were herded into captivity, when she lost herself. But she keeps her arm around the children and holds my hand.

Cindy is sitting near us, her baby wrapped up and snuggled in her arms. She looks away, as do Brenda and Gregson, holding on tight to Tessie.

But I can't stop watching Realand. The look in his eyes of anger and bitterness, of loss, is tangibly. And Jeffrey, staring calmly at the living parade, is drawn near, Realand keeping him close, speaking softly to the boy.

If he survives, Jeffrey will get his revenge in ways no one will mind except the victims. Perhaps that will be Realand's best revenge, making sure he lives long enough for that moment to come. Perhaps that was why I let him live.

The last stragglers pass by, groups of older children without parents. Bayla and Willy watch without any expression at all. At least they still have their parents.

And then they are gone. The guards motion for us to rise and our work day begins. In an hour some of those that passed by will be dead, and some shunted off to the unknown. We've been there, but not now. We live in our barn, fed and sheltered and worked but still, somehow, we know that for now we remain lucky.

o0o

I worked late today, on scrub, and after absorbing my dinner I'm just glad to rest. I peal off the muddy shoes and store them in the niche we reserve for mud. I'm ready to peal off the rest, but look up to find Brenda standing before me.

She's holding Tessie, her look worried, nervous. She hasn't tried to talk to me since we kept the child on the station. Now that she is recovered, we keep distance as well, not wanting to make the memories too bad.

But she hesitates before she speaks. She keeps back, not broaching our space as defined by our matts. "Could you come and look at John's foot? He cut himself today."

I'm not really prepared to be a doctor this moment, with nothing to work with. But she looks desperate enough I don't want to ignore her. "I can't do anything but bandage it," I tell her.

"If you could even do that," she says, worried. It was different on the station, cleaner. Here infections kill you. She knows that as well as anyone.

I pull myself out of my blankets and follow her to her matts, waiting until she sits. John Gregson is lying on his side, his foot wrapped up in an old uniform. It's still seeping blood.

Gingerly, I pull it back. It's not too bad, as cuts go. On the station I'd say it was no problem. But I could be a doctor then. He tenses as I move the skin, careful not to touch it. It's a clean cut, not overly deep. "I need some water, something to wash it off. And get me some cloth, clean if you can find it."

I put pressure on the cut while I wait, watching as he bites his lip. The bleeding has slowed, but I wonder if I should let it bleed more, clean it better. Just one dusting of the anti-biotic powder they supplied before would make a difference. It won't be much, but I'll wash it and bind it. If he's lucky it won't infect. I hope he's lucky, for Brenda's sake.

Tessie has crawled over to my lap, and is snuggling. She feels so right. I hope he survives for Tessie's sake too.

Brenda arrives with a pail of water, also a uniform taken from the bin. She isn't supposed to take it, but nobody will really notice. I wash the foot while she watches, Tessie still near.

"Look," she says. "I know it's . . . difficult, but don't be a stranger." She pats Tessie. "She still talks about you. If . . . " She doesn't finish the sentence. She knows how bad the cut could be. Or it might heal. It's all up to chance, and the mud and weather.

"We won't," I say, wishing it didn't hurt so much to have to leave Tessie behind. I love Molly and her brother, but we had this child ripped from us, and the wound is still too fresh.

She leaves the child with John, following me back to our matts. Hesitantly, she asks, "How bad?"

"It's clean. I bandaged it the best I could. It has as good a chance as any to heal."

She is watching, though. She knows. If he's lucky it will heal. If not there is nothing I can do.

"Thank you," she says.

I can't work miracles. Maybe I can't do anything, but somehow Brenda, like Ray, has made a difference in my life.

But I'd like to do more, to reclaim my identity somehow. And we are on Bajor. I've studied the herbal cures they often used. Maybe, just maybe among the carpet of green insisting on its right to exist are a few of the plants that might give me-and the rest-a little better chance.

o0o

The chilly mornings are giving way to the early signs of summer, and instead of sitting together in the shed we eat our breakfast on an open area near the warehouse. You can tell where the transports normally travel when they make their deliveries, but the area that is left alone has a soft layer of grasses now.

In the morning the grass is still damp, but not wet. It's peasant to sit and eat on the soft carpet. We don't feel so crowded as in the shed. But there is another reason. We're all very visible. They can watch us much better in the open, with nothing in the way to hide behind.

The local Bajorans have left a legacy of more than blood. There has been much more trouble since the executions. They were done in full view of the field crews to make sure everyone understood.

Maybe people saw their future. If I didn't know how soon this can end, how the core of our captors empire has already been shattered, I might feel the same.

But now, all it brings is more control, more rules and more misery.

We are never without guards out of our barn now. There is no time to sneak a conversation, or overhear news. We get disciplined if we're suspected of talking at all. The little news we gleamed from camp rumors mattered more than we knew.

So we sit, silently, and eat our mush. The sun is almost warm. The sky is clear and otherwise it might be called a beautiful day.

There is no trace of smoke anywhere. Nobody has dared to repeat what the Bajorans did. Would they deport all of us to who knows where?

Ezri is eating, her thoughts to herself. They spend hours working now, always under close watch, and she is often silent at night as well. Molly is licking her fingers, having mushed the bowl of gruel to a soup she's scraping with her hand. Yoshi is sipping his spoonfuls of food, slowly, messily. Too bad it isn't funny here. Children learn to be neat because otherwise they are hungry.

My own family preoccupied with food, I glance around the half circle of grass. I notice movement, Realand making his way past the others to relieve himself. He's been ill lately, some spring virus. He's left Jeffrey alone.

But I look back, and Jeffrey is gone. Perhaps Realand had him come as well, but it doesn't make sense. Then I see a hint of movement. There is a clump of grass behind a small rise and I am certain someone is hiding there.

Just ahead of Jeffrey are the Jacksons, Carl staring at his bowl, Cheryl finished and trying to stand. Calla waits as her mother is helped up and goes with her.

Carl isn't paying attention to anything but the food now. I keep watching the clump of grass. Realand isn't back, and I wait nervously as Carl finishes his broth, scraping the remains of the mush with his fingers.

Then, abruptly, there is movement. A rock sails from behind Carl-directly behind him-and hits the nearest guard squarely in the back of the head.

It is as if everything starts to move in slow motion, a drawn out nightmare that nobody wants to be real.

The guards are very attentive now, their rifles pointed at us. Nobody moves. Realand has just come out, noting Jeffrey's absence, and Cheryl is standing by the door, grasping her daughter's hand, staring at her husband as he sits frozen in place before the guard.

Then the guard leans over, picks up the rock, walks straight toward Carl and smashes it against his head. Carl falls, dropping his bowl, the fear building, screaming that he didn't throw it, repeating it over and over. But they don't listen. The clump of grass behind him is still, but I'm sure Jeffrey is inside it.

Carl is dragged out, still begging them to stop, but nobody can help him. They don't care who threw the rock, just that we see what happens afterwards. His head is bleeding, and he's fighting them now as they use their feet to subdue him, keeping it up until he stops moving.

A couple of the calties, standing in the background, move forward. They haul Carl's limp body to their shoulders and start down the road to the locked compound.

Cheryl collapses, falling back and only at the end catching herself as she sits on the ground. Calla is tugging on her mother, watching the body of her father disappear, in shock. Realand hasn't moved, but looks towards the place Jeffrey is hiding, his face grim and eyes riveted.

Nobody will tell them about Jeffrey, but he'll pay anyway, just as Carl has for turning against his son.

The rifles are lowered. One of the officials-a well dressed caltie-steps between them. "One week half-rations," he says, and walks away.

The guards retreat and people start to move, just a little. Realand is closest to Cheryl, and he leans over her, helping her into a better position. Her face is blank, disbelieving. He puts the little girl in her arms, and slowly starts moving towards Jeffrey.

But most people simply finish their food, slower now, knowing there will be no dinner. It's impossible to miss Realand as he moves towards Jeffrey's hiding place. Jeffrey will pay this time. Even Realand will not protect him now.

The work bell rings. I watch as with the movement of the others, Jeffrey is hauled out of the bush, and Realand moves towards the barn. Nobody will notice if he doesn't show up in the field. He drags the boy inside, returning a few minutes later to help Cheryl inside too.

Jeffrey has already been controlled, somehow. I know Realand had ropes hidden in his bedding and suspect Jeffrey is tied up securely.

He makes his way out as the rest assemble.

It will be a long hard day, serving others knowing we have nothing more until the next morning. Realand, moving slowly, stares at the ground. But a lot of us can't stop the glance up the road, wondering if Carl will be among the next to be marched down the road, if he even lasts that long.

And Jeffrey, will Jeffrey join his father in dying a hard and painful death? Tonight when we return, will our judgement be as hard as theirs? With the life they have forced on us, have we become no better than them?

End, Part 3, Chapter 15 of Surrender


	16. Surrender Part 3 Chapter 16

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 3 – Slavery

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this story:

The Emerald City of Oz, by L. Frank Baum

Chapter 16

Stomach grumbling, I feel Cheryl's belly. She is lying on her side, staring ahead and holding on to Carl's pillow. Everything of his is still in place. Nobody has heard if he's still alive, thought executions are generally visible.

Cheryl isn't giving up hope, but she hasn't said a word to anyone since Carl vanished. Except for the tribunal about Jeffrey, nobody has said much at all.

It has been almost a week. At least I'm back on scrub now. It's hard enough to be so hungry, but to have to serve food to others all day you can't touch is torture.

Jeffrey is alive. Every morning he sits by his mother and is allowed to eat a little of his food. He gives the rest to his mother and little sister. Then he leaves, Realand making sure he doesn't try to steal any other food.

We told the guards when they asked that he was too sick to go out. Jeffrey couldn't argue with his mouth tied. When rations go back to normal he'll be allowed a little more freedom, but for now he lives under a blanket with Cheryl there to make sure he stays.

Jeffrey doesn't fight us. He knows he's lucky-better off than Carl, no matter what we do to him.

Cheryl had false labor pains earlier and I verify she isn't ready to give birth, the baby not yet dropped. But soon, I think. I wonder if I'll be allowed to deliver the child or made to work instead.

But it's getting late. Luther is working close down tonight and as the door opens he wanders towards me, indicating with his hand that he has some news. We wander a bit away, where there are few potential listeners.

"I saw Carl today," he says.

I glance at Cheryl, now holding his pillow to herself as if it was Carl. "How bad?"

He looks away. "He's one of the rats." They use rats to clean out the water pipes and other places that are likely to kill you. "He's fresh out of the box. You can tell by the brand being so new."

People like Carl are branded for life. Life tends to be rather short for them.

Luther turns away, hesitates, and won't look my way at all. "He should be okay. He's pretty. One of the guards likes him. He'll make sure he's got enough to eat."

Rats get one-third rations. It's not enough. But there are ways to get food, things to trade. Carl probably has a chance to make up for the rations if the guard is really interested. Rats are guarded by the scum of the calties, beneath the attention of the Jem'Hadar. Just how they keep their prisoners in line is immaterial to the other guards.

"I'll tell Cheryl he's alive. Not the rest . . . " I don't know how to tell her how he'll survive, though she can probably guess.

I remember lunches with Garak, playing a careful game. He never touched me, but I knew he wanted more than friendship. I liked Garak, cared about him, but knew all too well that I could never really trust him.

I still remember the Garak that lives in the alternate universe, so like my luncheon date, and just as dangerous. The only difference was the world they lived in. In my world, Garak didn't dare push me into the relationship he so wanted. But just the same, now and then, there was hunger in his eyes, and I took care to tread carefully around him.

I'd considered what might happen if he ever tried. But he didn't know my secret. I could have killed him if that is what it took to make him let me be.

Carl doesn't have that option. The only game he's playing is with his life. He can sell his body or die a slow, miserable death.

Luther sits down on the edge of the pathway, near an empty matt. He turns away from me, staring at the ground. "She'll know. Sooner or later. They make them rats by systematic rape. And they offer other prisoners food to do it. Carl won't argue if they feed him." He pauses. "Maybe he'll try it himself."

I look at Luther, note his nervous hands, his hunched position. He knows what it feels like to be broken. Does he know more about the lot of the rats than he's willing to say? His voice is flat, lifeless. His hands are shaking badly now. Nancy said it took a long time before she could touch him. That was on the station but every policy has to start somewhere.

Luther played games with me, just like Garak, but for him, too, the games ended with the Dominion. Both of them are dead now. The Luther who shakes so badly is only the shell that's left.

"Sometimes they release rats," I say, hoping not to think too hard about his future.

"In a few months, when they've used him up. But he'll still be branded. Just one infraction, and he's back there for good."

He turns, looks at me. Our eyes meet for a moment. Both of us know what it is to be owned. Carl will just be owned in a slightly different way.

But he's nervous. There is something else. He holds out his hands, touches a homemade pocket in his clothes. "Here, I can't manage right now. Be careful, don't lose any."

Cautiously, I reach into the pocket and find something sticky and sharp, like sand but not sand. He has stolen a handful of salt from the larder brought at closing to add to the broth.

With his help, I gather it together and hide it in a pocket I've made, using a loose piece of cloth I carry for bandage to hold it. I don't know what to say. He'd be deported if he was caught. I can be deported as well for taking it from him.

"Thought it might help," he mumbles. With a faint smile, he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling towards Nancy.

I should tell Cheryl, but I'm just not ready. She knows how they treat the rats, how they are branded and beaten and starved. To know he's alive will help, but to have him so near and yet not be able to even contact him just might be harder. And when he comes home-if, that is-she'll not know him anymore.

Instead, I carefully measure the treasure in my pocket. It isn't much, but then, carefully soaked into a cloth, it would last for a few days at the least, long enough to see if John's cut will heal.

My matts are deserted right now, Ezri and the children with Brenda. John is asleep, and Ezri is holding Tessie while Brenda teases Yoshi.

I hide most of the salt under my own matt, on the pretense of checking the books. A strip of cloth with the salt rolled inside is stashed in my pocket. I go to visit, and check the foot again.

John stirs, and I can tell he's in pain. He was lucky for a while. I was able to keep it bandaged enough that it kept clean, but there is a spot of infection now. Unwrapping the bandage, I sniff the foot.

It isn't a bad one, but enough, here. If he gets lucky again the salt will make a difference.

Brenda gets the bin with water while I remove the old bandage. The stolen uniform has been reduced to strips of fabric and is stored under my blankets.

She helps hold him, Ezri keeping the children out of the way, while I wash it. It's worse, the redness spreading further and the first hint of yellow near the wound. I hope Luther's gift saves his life, but it has to be done carefully, surreptitiously. If I get caught, I don't want to take anyone with me.

The salty layer of bandage is soaked and applied to the wound, fixed in place by more strips. Ezri notices the difference but says nothing. John jerks a little as the salt starts to seep into the wound. "It's very tender. It will sting a lot."

Ezri glances at me, then back at Luther. She says nothing. Brenda takes my hand. "Whatever happens, we'll remember this."

Carl is living in hell and we are only higher class slaves. But for a moment I felt whole. "Keep believing," I tell her.

How many months are left? I've lost count, but probably too many for Carl and John. She needs to hope, but I know how little chance he has in the end. And Carl is already lost.

But then Miles is in my head. 'Good, you remember that. Remember, you owe me.'

How can I forget? They let me back in, but at the cost of too many lives.

Ezri trails me back to our matts, children following behind. She gives me an odd look, then says, "Stings?"

Another secret, one I can't let them know, not ever her this time. One secret tore me from these people. Perhaps this one, if Gregson manages to live, will help balance the score a little.

o0o

Ray is watching as I dress the wound, now puffy and yellow along its length. My carefully folded bandage is soaked, and I place it on the growing infection with regret. Without Luther's gift John would probably be dead, but it won't be enough. All we are doing is making him live a little longer, suffer more pain. He already has a fever. He can't walk on the leg and has been left behind for the last three days. Brenda watches, holding Tessie and staring at the foot. We all know what's going to come of it, even Brenda and John. He holds his breath while I bandage the wound, and collapses when I finally finish.

Brenda is staring at me now. She carries Tessie to Ezri and gives the child to her. "Her fussing makes it hard to for him to rest. Could you keep her tonight?"

Ezri hugs the child. "Sure," she says, looking at me, watching as I nod. He'd dying and I know how noisy Tessie is. No matter how much salt I soak into the cut it won't stop the infection anymore. Privately, I decide to save the rest for someone it might keep alive. It's the only thing I can do for him, let him die without prolonging it more than necessary.

I keep thinking about frontier medicine and getting your wish.

Brenda follows us back to our matts. She sits on the edge, watching both of us. Ray is still watching, breaking all the rules and following her. She pats Tessie in the head, and smiles. "If something happens, promise you'll take her back. I mean promise. Don't let them take her away. I know you can do it."

Ezri looks worried. "We'll take her, just like we promised her grandmother. But you have to make a promise to us too. I know how bad John is. But you hang on whatever happens."

"You can't stop the infection," she says, matter-of-factly. "Whatever you were using isn't working." She looks away.

I remember the first time I had to tell a loved one nothing could be done, the way they looked at me as if I'd failed them. We had the miracle of Federation science, and yet sometimes it failed. The woman could not conceive of it. I was an intern then, and two other doctors had been called in to confirm my diagnosis.

I wish Brenda would look at me that way. At first, she'd hoped, but never really believed. Giving us Tessie is proof enough that's she's given up. But she never really expected anything else. I almost wish Luther had not stolen the salt. It would be long over now and Brenda would have dealt with his death in whatever way she has learned.

"No," I admit. "But I tried. I'll keep trying," I offer, wondering what she'll say.

"It won't help," she says flatly. "Why risk trouble?"

Why indeed? If anyone should know better it's me. But Ezri answers instead. "He's a doctor. He has to."

I'm not sure who Ezri is now. I thought she was herself, in counselor mode, before but now I wonder. There is a little of Jadzia but someone else I can't make out too.

"Not always," says Brenda, staring at me. "If Jeffrey was hurt would you treat him? Realand? I doubt it."

I really don't know. Carl is still among the rats thanks to his son. We had rations cut just as the virus hit our people hard, and the lack of food meant a lot more people got sick. I really don't know if I'd let Jeffrey just go ahead and die.

"Maybe Realand," I say, watching as he tows Jeffrey to his mother to help her straighten the blankets. Realand never liked Carl, thought him too weak, but he likes Cheryl. I'm not sure he regrets Jeffrey's revenge against his father, just the way it hurt everyone else. But I don't enjoy the reminder. "Look, we'll watch Tessie. But you are her mother now, no matter how it happened. You owe it to her to keep going."

I wish she could understand. After the massacre I didn't care much if I lived, but Miles died and left his children to me. It saved my life. I want her to give Tessie the same gift.

She doesn't say anything. "You'd do a lot better job," she says as she drifts back to John, lying on his back now, his breathing shallow and ragged. She can spend more time with Tessie later. John doesn't have the time to wait.

Ray watches as she leaves. "She's going to give up when he dies." He looks towards Cheryl. "First Carl, now John, probably Brenda too. Who's next?"

"Nobody knows," says Ezri, watching as he stares at our matts.

"Is that all there is to life now? Working and eating and sleeping and starting all over again, taking a break when someone dies? No wonder people are giving up. On the station it wasn't all that different. But we had distractions that they don't control. We had books." Ray keeps watching, concentrating on me.

Ezri looks at me too. "We still do. We just don't read them."

I fumble with my blankets, mindful of the secret store of salt hidden along with the books. "We do have the third book. But we don't have much time to read."

"Nobody's going to care about that. And when John dies and Brenda falls apart and you take the child do you really think they will let you if you won't even let them *read* your books?"

I realize our promise about Tessie won't be easy. But Ray's right. Brenda has accepted us, but will the rest? I already know that this time they won't take her away, no matter what. There won't be a lot of time to read, but even if we have only a few minutes they will belong to us.

"We'll start tomorrow. As soon as everyone is here I'll pull out the book." I wait until Ray starts to stand. "But I get them, nobody else." I don't know if the tone is from Miles legacy or the knowledge that the books are protecting a more dangerous secret than the dreams they inspire.

"I'll pass the word," he says, moving slowly away. Then, looking at Brenda he says, quietly, "Maybe another one, one we've read. Like you said there isn't much light. Oz, maybe."

John won't hear the end of it, and Brenda may give up anyway. "Oz sounds good. Why don't you read first, since it was your idea."

Life is dull and hard and sometimes brutal. But as Ray moves from matts to matts and people glance our way, all I can think of is Arthur and his journey, and wonder what new oddities we'll find. I want to read about Ozma and her dust, savor the defeat of the Nome king. I can't save John and Carl will live or not, but Arthur and Zaphod and Dorothy and Ozma-and all the others-will bring a small thread of life back. On the station we needed something to give us a reason to go on, and need it all the more here.

Whatever tomorrow brings, there will be tomorrow night and perhaps the day will go a little faster.

o0o

Daniel is reading. Our family of Denebians hardly ever react to this place. But when they read, it is as if a magic thing happens and something buried comes to life.

Tonight he's reading about Dorothy and her visit with His Majesty of Bunburry-the sumptuous dinner, the rabbits dressed with care in satins and formal clothes. The king is unhappy, though, caught in his kingship. Rabbits, to the king, were intended to be forest creatures, not live in sumptuous palaces. He blubbers all the time and especially to Dorothy who will still listen.

We don't blubber. We are caught in this terrible place and can't resign either, but we just go on.

Sometimes. John is very sick now, his fever high and constant. If I could take off the leg it might have helped, days ago perhaps, but I have no means of doing it. And if he can't walk, can't work, he would have no use to them at all.

Ezri is holding Tessie, the child asleep in her arms. We've had her at our matts for days, especially since the fever got bad and John is drifting in his own world. Brenda spends all her time-except work, of course, sitting by him, trying to feed him a little broth, hoping he'll hang on just a little longer.

Even like this, she's holding together. As long as he lives, as long as she has a chance to share a little of her life with him, she manages. But when he dies she will have only Tessie, the child already physically given to Ezri.

Daniel is nearing the end of the reading, the king finding that just, perhaps, he'd like to take along his favorite suit and other things should he return to the forest. After all he's used to them by now.

Then a scream stops him mid-sentence. Brenda sits bolt upright, John's limp hand falling lifelessly from hers. Her body is taunt, eyes fixed on John. Just watching, staring, she doesn't move.

I hurry to her matts. Ezri puts Tessie down and follows. She takes Brenda in her arms as I confirm what everyone suspects.

John is dead now. All the suffering is done. I close his eyes, cover his face. Now, Brenda matters more.

"He was sleeping," she says as if it was a waking dream. "I was holding his hand. Then he just . . . jerked, his whole body jerked, and everything went limp." She's shaking now, being firmly held by Ezri. "He's gone now," she says, softly, the shaking stopped. She simply collapses into Ezri's arms.

She just stares at her hand, the last part of her to touch his body. She isn't crying, isn't reacting at all. She's slipping further and further away instead.

Ezri wraps her in her blanket and pulls her up, taking her to our matts for the night. Ray wanders over and together we wrap the body in a blanket, regretting the loss but with nothing else to put him in.

Since the doors are locked, he stays until morning. We carry the body to the storage area near the side, and cover it as best we can. But no one will sleep all that well tonight until morning when he can be carried to the dead room.

Daniel looks around, still holding the book. He's almost done with the chapter, and we still try to finish the chapter if we can. Ezri is holding Brenda, Tessie snuggled with Yoshi and Molly already. Brenda still hasn't moved or spoken or reacted in any way. Ray stands, looking at Daniel. "Go ahead and finish," he says.

Daniel finishes the last page, the king declaring his throne his favorite seat, since he's grown so used to setting on it, and the court ladies approach for Princess Dorothy, representing Queen Ozma, to be presented to the court.

The book is carried back to me and I put it away, the remaining salt carefully buried away from the book. Brenda is pulled down, Ezri still holding her, and I put blankets over them.

It's dark now, certainly too dark to read, but I can't sleep. Decon is coming soon and I look forward to it as I flick some of the fuzzy bugs out of my beard. They don't appear to cause disease but they itch as they crawl. Since the scratching leads to sores they get rid of them most of the time too. It's too warm tonight to be comfortable wrapped around Ezri, even if Brenda wasn't there. It is certainly too warm to have a dead body in the corner.

I remember once that Garak said the one thing he regretted about the way his father died was that there was no funeral. Tain would have liked that, enjoyed the power he had in death as well as in life, drawing all the important people who still instinctually feared him to his final moment. I wonder if John believed in anything, if he minds having his body disposed of and his memory the only memorial he'll get.

Miles still haunts me. Will he stay with Brenda in death, perhaps keeping her from losing herself entirely? Or will his touch simply draw her closer to joining him?

I don't remember going to sleep, but the bell goes of as usual in the morning and I'm lying with my blanket around me next to the edge, Brenda still in Ezri's arms. It's less comfortable that way, but we don't have time to worry about that. I'm on early crew today, and have to hurry. While I'm getting ready, Ezri rouses Brenda, who stares at her and then her own matts. Then she faints.

I remember the moment I woke the second time, when it fell to Kira to tell me Miles was gone. I know where she is now, could help her but have no time. The children are up, waiting to eat, and Ezri pulls Brenda to the pillows to wake. At least she misses Ray and several others removing the body as the door opens. I have to go, rushing out a bit late, Ezri still sitting by Brenda.

They eat when we get our breakfast ready to serve. I don't need to add anything else to remind them of my misdeeds.

By the time we're ready, Ezri is guiding her out, still in shock but moving. She follows in line and takes her bowl, staring at it, and sits as Ezri makes her. Done with serving our breakfast, I sit with them, making Brenda eat. If I put the spoon in her hand, dip it into the food, she'll absently eat the contents. Otherwise she doesn't see it at all.

How she will last the day I don't know. But I am on scrub today, and have to go. Ezri takes her hand, the children going back inside. Molly is just barely too young for the field work gang now. Next summer, she'll go with Ezri.

I remind myself that next summer the Founders will be dead and all will have changed. But not the fields. Maybe the day will be easier if you aren't doing it because you have to.

Everyone's very quiet, obviously very tired. I suspect a lot of people couldn't get to sleep. We lose people, but usually in the field or out of the barn. This death, so prolonged and visible, was very personal.

I find a hunk of fruit in the bin from one of the higher-caste groups. Nobody is watching and I manage to eat it myself. The rest of the day I keep looking to see if anyone knows, and manage to stop worrying about Brenda entirely.

But we assemble for dinner after I'm finally done, filthy and muddy and tired. Ezri greets Molly and Yoshi as if she's always been their mother, and this time includes Tessie as well. I look around but do not see Brenda. I can't ask out here, but use a simple finger sign I'd taught her, a question mark traced in the air. She shrugs, which I take to mean she hasn't seen Brenda for some time.

Other people are looking around, trying not to be too obvious, but nobody has seen her. Dinner is rushed, Ezri gathering the children and hurrying them inside. I drop in the used bowls, grateful I've done my extra work for the day in the morning and don't have to work close out crew.

"Where is she?" asks Catherine, looking at Ezri.

"I don't know. She was next to me most of the day but when we moved fields I lost her. Anybody see her after that?"

Nobody remembers her from then on. She didn't come back into camp. When they find her hiding they'll shoot her. If we're lucky they'll not bother to figure out which group she came from.

The night crew returns, including Sloan. He looks very grim.

Realand is with them. "We heard a couple of shots," he says, standing near the door. "It was near the fields."

He moves ahead to release Jeffrey, restrained when alone after a threatening gesture yesterday. The boy sits up, eyes down, as Realand lets him go.

The door is locked. If that was Brenda, then she's already gone. If it wasn't she'll be dead by morning.

Ezri is holding Tessie, telling her she'll stay here now. Tessie kisses her and Ezri is holding on tight, the look of a mother cat in her eyes. Most people look, breaking our rules, but are too stunned, or don't care enough, to react.

Realand is finished with Jeffrey. The boy moves towards his mother, looking almost willing to help this time. He won't be restrained tomorrow if he behaves tonight. But now Realand is looking at us, especially Ezri and Tessie.

He doesn't like it. Brenda can't be her mother anymore, but he still doesn't want me to have the child. Nobody says a word, watching as he makes his way around matts towards us, hesitant but not backing down.

Ezri is holding the child to her breast, daring Realand to try. She'd kill him if he touched Tessie.

If she had a chance. He'd be dead before he could get to Tessie or Ezri. She won't be taken this time. I'll kill him first.

I stand, walking in front of our matts. I remember his foot, the way Tessie reached for Ezri the miserable morning that followed, and the small tight room he had us shut in. I do plan to pay him back for that. I'd rather not have it now, but that is up to him.

He stops, a few matts away, and waits. I step forward. The people near us retreat a bit.

He opens his mouth to speak, looking around the room. Every eye is watching, but none of them are about to interfere this time. There will be no mob, just he and I.

"The child needs a new family," he gets out before I step forward, too close for comfort.

I keep thinking of his foot, the bruises, the room and the pain of having Tessie disappear from our life. He will not take her this time. I glare at him, the anger inside welling up but kept contained. Still, he can't miss the look of pure hatred on my face.

"She already has one," I state flatly. "Brenda asked us to take her. And her grandmother did before that, even if you stole her that time."

I give him my full attention, and he stumbles back a little. I almost hope he dares to challenge me. John died because we don't matter enough to get the simplest of medicine. Brenda died-or will-because we aren't allowed the time to grieve. I need to vent the anger and Realand will do just fine.

He hasn't left, but he's scared. He keeps glancing at Jeffrey, now standing, looking worried himself. I suppose he'd miss him if I killed Realand.

"It has to be agreed upon," he says, almost timidly. But I suppose I do admire his courage. He can see that I would like to kill him now and yet he hasn't backed off.

I'm tired, though, and want some rest. Nobody is going to help him. He's lost the mob to me this time. I turn and very pointedly stare at Jeffrey, who backs off and sits. Then I stare at him.

"Remember what I said about the books. And my family. I still mean it."

Realand looks at the others, staring at both of us, all of them caught up in the suspense. He droops his head, then shoulders. He looks around the room, addressing them rather than me. "Then have her."

He goes back to Jeffrey and the boy sits very close, as if Realand was protecting him. I retire to our matts and our three children.

For a long moment nothing is said, but then Ray stands. "Brenda would want us to read," he says, looking towards me.

I look at Realand. "Yes, she would. He should start," and I take out the book.

Chapter 21 is titled "The King Changed his Mind." As I hand the book to Ray and he makes his way towards Realand, somehow it fits just right.

I promised Brenda. This time I kept my promise, just as I will keep the one I made to Miles. Ezri is holding the child, still daring anyone to take her away, and I put my arms around both of them. We slide down on the matts, and our new daughter is asleep before Realand gets three pages along, held in the safety of her mothers arms.

Now that it's over all my strength fades, and I rest in their company until Realand finishes the chapter and we sleep, the last act of the tragedy all done now.

o0o

I used to sit with Miles, share meals with him even when we seldom spoke. Then they killed him. It was so hard facing the first meal alone.

But Ray was there, helping me as I took my first walks, giving me back something I thought had been lost just as I gave him a reason to go on.

Now, whenever I can, I sit with Ray. We don't talk a lot. I don't know about much of his life, before here, and he doesn't know of mine. But that doesn't matter. The world that came before now is immaterial. Now we have Molly and Kara to watch, and perhaps to dream of what life might have been for them in another world.

Kara and Molly are inseparable, the sort of best friends only children can become. We don't talk about how grateful we are that our children can still have friends, that there is enough of the "child" left in them to play.

And I don't want to get close to anyone, but Ray has gotten past my defenses. Almost all my old friends are missing or dead. Ray is the only new friend I have, but he has proven he is a friend more than once.

I can't afford friends, and they can't afford me, but he doesn't care. What matters to Ray is his wife Raina and his daughter Kara. Once I wouldn't have understood, but now I do.

Even Realand understands that now, even if the boy wasn't born to him.

But John and Brenda's deaths have changed things for us. They reminded us that we can't assume anything about tomorrow. The way their lives ended have made the immediate all that more important.

For Ray, it is Kara's next birthday. He wants to give her something better than a new doll, or a toy he's fashioned out of the garbage that we clean up. He wants to give her something that will be special in case there isn't a chance to celebrate the next one.

I just hope he doesn't find that special gift, because the chance of getting caught is too great. You get deported for stealing, and every time I touch the books I worry someone will find my secret ball of salt and I will be gone. At least the salt might save a life.

It's warmer now. When the bell goes off, the sun is almost up and it stays light for a little while after we're done. Some of the children get up early. Sometimes we read more, or just talk after we're locked in while the light fades.

It is a great gift, this little bit of light. For a few minutes we have some time for ourselves.

Molly and Kara wake up early now, taking a little time in the morning to play. Once work starts they have other responsibilities, caring for all the younger children left behind that Cheryl alone cannot watch. Kara is just a little older than Molly, and for both this will be the last summer as children.

I love watching them play. I marvel at how they still grasp every chance to still be children.

I'm sure if we were allowed to pick, I'd be relegated to the dregs of our work. But we aren't and I am still alternating between scrub crew and serving crew. Serving crew is easier but there are rewards to be found on scrub if nobody is watching.

Especially, there is fruit. Some of the others get this round, sweet fruit. Sometimes, like the day Brenda disappeared, we find pieces of it. It's too dangerous to bring them back, being caught for stealing, opening everyone to punishment. But if you can eat it without being seen you might have a taste of something sweet.

I hate serving them fruit. It is so hard knowing you don't dare touch it.

I am on serving crew today. Ray is on scrub. We finally finished breakfast, and are immediately rushed back for clean-up. It's been hot and we stall as much as we can without the guards noticing. Somehow we get behind. We are warned the cleaning is to be finished before dinner. If not we finish it after dinner.

The other crews took forever to get their food today. We are going to have to hurry to finish. Rushing the cleaning, all I can think about is tonight when we might have enough light to read a little.

Books take a long time to read now. We have so little time to read, with longer days leading to later work. But even if all we can take from the day is ten minutes at the end, it is ours, a small victory over them. Ozma was about to send her dust to the tunnel, and I am looking forward to reading it again.

I can tell something is wrong before we even get back. There are too many guards. We enter our own compound, looking around cautiously. Everyone is tense. The crew is working, but hardly paying any attention to what they are doing. The guards are very attentive.

The first thing I notice is that Ray isn't there. I know he'd found fruit and smuggled it in for his family before. But recently someone in one of the other units had their family transferred here after being deported for stealing, the family demoted to our status. Somehow, I doubted he'd take the chance again.

My best guess is I was wrong. I can only hope my guess is premature.

We do our work, nobody providing an explanation. We manage to finish before it's time to start on dinner. It takes forever to get dinner done and the rest of the things that follow.

When the rest come back, tired and dirty, I watch for his wife. She searches for Ray and doesn't find him. Kara clutches her mother's hand.

Ezri is standing near them. I often wonder who she is now. But I think she's just Ezri, worried about her friend. We eat. The vegetables come and we finish them quickly.

They let us go into our own place.

Nobody has to ask. Kara and her mother sit on their mats, staring out into the emptiness. One of the others comes forward, one of the men from Ray's crew.

There is not a single sound.

"He found a couple of pieces of the fruit. It's Kara's birthday pretty soon. I think he meant them as a gift." He becomes silent, as they freeze.

It's not a surprise. It's happened. But not to us, not yet. Brenda is gone, but at least we know she's dead.

Ray will never see his family again. He'll be shipped off to one of the convict crews, where men and women are stored separately. He'll be used until there is nothing left. His wife and daughter will never know where he dies.

Weyoun is wrong. This isn't the worse. But he would not let go of all his options. He still has something more dismal to threaten me with.

I sit on my matts, Ezri hugging the children. Raina and Kara are sitting alone, and I want to hold them, share in the emptiness his disappearance has created.

I want to tell them that revenge is already done, that we just have to wait. But then, it won't help Ray. I remember when he took care of me and proved that a little of our lives still belonged to us. It will be months before the changelings die and convicts are considered disposable. It's doubtful he'll last that long.

Nobody has seen Carl for awhile either. The changlings will die too late for him too. Cheryl has gone to Raina and is sitting with her, just holding her hand. We don't interfere.

Ray's matts were near, and I can see Kara as she looks at her mother, tears in her eyes. Molly is holding my hand, squeezing it so hard it hurts. She's staring at her friend, and as we go back to our matts she pulls us closer, and holds on tight to her brother. She knows what it's like to have parents disappear. Yoshi is still too young to really understand.

But I'm worried about Ezri. She holds the children, but is too quiet, too tense. I look into her eyes but only see pain. This is tearing her apart. Sometimes she is one of her former selves. But then sometimes, like now, she isn't any of them, just lost.

Ray is gone, and I'm scared that Ezri is too. How long will it take before she isn't the sum of her parts, but only glimpses of them? When will it be too long for her to ever come back together and be Ezri again?

o0o

I have delivered all of Cheryl's children. Not long after we first came to the station, Jeffrey was one of the first Federation births. Carl and Cheryl knew they were bringing children into a dangerous world, but family mattered too much to leave her behind. And then, just days before the war began, Calla was born. Cheryl and the children stayed on the station despite the danger. In the end it probably saved their lives, but at the time they didn't know it would, only that they needed each other too much.

But Carle was born this morning, her mother alone except for the few others left in the deserted barn. Nobody has seen Carl for a week, even with everyone looking for him when the rats were visible. Either he's dead or has been pulled into the half-world of survival that is available to him. Either way, he won't be back. Carle will never know her father.

She's named after him, a remembrance of all the worry he'd had over her birth. But Cheryl didn't even have them wake me until she was fairly well along, and I did my first examination in the dark, feeling with hands what I couldn't see.

Cindy held her hand the whole time. She helped her breath. She filled in where Carl might have, except Carl probably wouldn't have been allowed to stay. Nancy sat with her all night, but had to go with the others for work.

I didn't know if I'd be allowed to remain, given that she hadn't given birth by the time I was to leave for work. But after the early crew gave them the message, a smooth-faced caltie arrived and came to watch. It was odd, spooky, especially the way he looked at her, the creepy smile on his face. Then he just walked away and I was told that I was excused for the day, Cindy as well, and to deliver the child.

I still wish I could believe it was for her benefit. But she doesn't matter enough.

Cheryl was calm, knowing what to expect, and I suppose that helped. And it was an easy birth, at least for here. Several clean uniforms were commandeered to put under her, and then dumped back in the used bin. We've already figured out they don't count how many are there, so if a few more disappear than normal nobody will know.

Several more have been reduced to piles of diapers, but at least the fabric is so worn it will be soft. Carle will have a little comfort in this life.

But as Cheryl slept, Cindy collapsed next to her, I tried to rest. All I could think of was those men who called themselves doctors and yet did not wash, and the disease they called childbirth fever that came from their own filth. I cleaned myself the best I could, but I can't tell if it was enough.

I kept thinking about frontier medicine, about how I finally got what I wanted so badly.

Is this our future? We dress in the uniforms we're given, growing more worn with each batch, with bearded faces and grimy bodies we no longer notice. Ezri used to push back imaginary pieces of hair, but now she has real ones, shaggy clumps that have grown out from her always carefully trimmed hair. The men, hair dragging in tangled clumps, had the worse of it hacked off the last decon but they left the women's hair longer this time.

What if she infects, dies in the same kind of misery as John, because I could not clean myself enough? The child has already lost her father; I don't want to be the one to cost her a mother.

I liked being a doctor, but even that part of my life is compromised. Cheryl didn't turn me away, just as the others won't, but there is so little I can do for any of them I almost wish I could refuse.

But just as they don't comment about Tessie anymore, as I've been allowed back in the society, I can't deny them whatever I can do. All there is left are the little victories, and we all know to savor them.

But I keep watching Cheryl, sleeping now, her children around her, even Jeffrey, wondering if she saw the look in the caltie's eyes.

Luther is watching too, wearing his hidden face, the one he wears when he has secrets to tell. He makes his way to my matts, gestures to walk away.

In a quiet corner, he asks calmly, "That caltie this morning, did he touch her?"

It's an odd question. There is an undertow of pain in his voice I can't miss. "No, just looked. And smiled."

"I think he took Carl for himself. The same crew he was with was out there today and Carl's gone. And the caltie, I remember him, the way he looked hungry when he looked at Carl."

"She didn't notice," I say, hoping it's true, remembering the smile, the way Ezri was used to try to make me cooperate.

Was I Carl's reward for being good? Has he sufficiently humiliated himself to allow a safe birth for his child?

Does it matter to Carl as long as Carle was born at all?

Does Weyoun know that we have custody of three children now, that he has even more hostages to torment me with when he tries again?

Eventually the caltie will get tired of Carl, perhaps use him up. Carl will be disposed of somehow and even if it's been a trip to hell it will be over. Cheryl will go on alone, but no longer be his hostage.

For them there will be an end.

For me, there is no end short of the collapse of their empire. I know we wanted Tessie, but did I really do her a favor by insisting?

Sloan stares at the door. "Carl won't let him touch her. He'll do whatever he has to to make sure."

It's true. For him it's simple. For me, perhaps for Luther now that he and Nancy are so close, it isn't quite the same.

The night crew arrives late, too late for a reading tonight, and we all go back to our families. Tessie crawls next to me, wrapping her fingers in my beard. Ezri is quiet tonight, eating quietly and playing with Yoshi. Molly can't stop talking about the baby.

But it's getting dark. The children crawl together, and I take Ezri in my arms. "Anything wrong?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.

"Be careful," she says. But it isn't Ezri. I don't have any idea who I'm holding tonight, but she feels good in my arms anyway, and I push away the fear that someday there will be nobody to hold.

o0o

It is summer and the sun rises earlier now. The bright rays of dawn lighten our sleeping room before the alarm. The children wake with the light and use the time to play. There is no chance during the day. There is too much work to do.

Molly and Kara are inseparable. Ray's widow Raina is a part of our family, and in our own way she and I lean on each other, especially when Ezri goes distant on me and I don't know who she is. In our own way, both of us are alone.

The girls are playing, giggling over some game, when there is a snarl from one of the men.

"Quiet them down or I will do it myself," he says, standing up suddenly, moving towards the girls.

Everyone is startled. The children have played like this ever since it got light so early. Nobody ever complained. The girls stare at him, surprised but not afraid.

Kara starts to play with her doll again and Molly turns away from him, her doll "talking" to Kara's about the loud man.

Abruptly, he kicks Molly.

She screams, grabbing her doll. Kara runs away too, both to their mothers.

I stand, staring at him as he watches, suddenly aware of my attention. But I don't move, and he takes my inaction as a measure of safety. Perhaps he thinks it's too close to the bell. But I'm just waiting. I want to see how bad he hurt my daughter. Ezri feels for broken ribs and Molly squirms, but she nods that Molly is all right.

But I don't move. People are watching me warily, especially Realand. Tessie is hiding under the blanket, holding her little brother. But this time they needn't worry about me.

Molly is crying now. Ezri is holding her, checking her side again. But there is rage in Ezri's eyes. Looking up, she stares at him. Then she hugs the little girl, and picks her up. Standing, she kisses Molly and puts her in my arms. She isn't Ezri now, and I decide to let her deal with the violation instead. As she moves towards him, I can see the anger rising, growing to a fever pitch. She is still calm, but ready to explode just the same.

He stands by himself, still fuming. He starts ranting. "These kids, they just make it hard for the rest of us. I'd like some sleep in the morning." He stomps away, everyone watching him.

He was in Sloan's group, and I guess he lost his wife early on. He has kept to himself ever since.

Ezri keeps following him. Silently, directly in front of him, she stares into his eyes. "You will never touch another child," she hisses.

I stare at them, suddenly uncertain and almost willing him to let it be. The bell will ring soon. I'll deal with him myself later. I hold Molly towards Raina and she takes her.

Looking into Ezri's eyes, he's startled. He can see the anger, but not the threat. She is so much smaller than him. He backs away. "Just keep them out of my way," he snarls.

Then, without warning, she knocks his feet out from under him. Taken by surprise, he lands flat on the ground, face down. She is on him instantly, twisting his arms behind him. Panicking, he struggles violently but she has him firmly pinned.

Nobody touches them. I move a little closer but even I am cautious.

I can see the cold fury in her eyes. She can neither see nor hear us. Unexpectedly, he stops his struggles and becomes very still.

Abruptly, Ezri thrown off guard, he frees an arm and pulls out a piece of metal with a fairly sharp edge and aims it at her. Enraged, she twists his arm, and takes it away. She yanks his head up by the hair, and he freezes as the metal edge is pressed against his throat.

I must stop her before she kills him. If she lets the anger rule her she may never be my Ezri again. And for him, the lesson will work much better. He'll always wonder if she is just waiting for a better moment.

I move closer, still moving with caution. She is hissing in his ear, "You aren't safe around children. We should do something about that." Then she starts to hum a tune.

Joran's tune. I freeze, remembering that Joran slit the throat of the man he killed. Ezri pushes the edge against his throat, chocking him.

I approach with great care. She will not know me. I am concentrating on the hand holding the blade. I have to stop her from using it. I'm afraid if she kills him I'll lose the part of her that's Ezri forever.

She lets it up and he is gulping air. Sloan approaches, nodding to me, using the hand signals we'd developed long before. We try to be very quiet. Everyone else moves back.

I nod. Sloan calls her, and in the second she's distracted I grab her hand and pull the knife away from her victim. Sloan helps me hold her down. She fights us, trying to twist free, as the man gets away.

We drag her to a corner and push her down. Holding her hands and legs, keeping away from her attempts to bite, we let her struggle.

Abruptly, she collapses. Raina holds the children, and I hold Ezri. Everyone else backs away.

I can feel her change. The taunt muscles relax and she ceases to struggle once she sees it is me. She looks up, confused. Molly and Yoshi are crying. Tessie is still hiding under the blanket. Sloan is watching the door.

She looks up at me as I release her, and then at the man she nearly killed.

I don't know who I'm dealing with. But she sits down, holding out her arms. "Molly?" she asks in a soft voice.

The little girl moves uncertainly towards her, but buries her head in her mother's shoulder and cries while Ezri rocks her. Yoshi comes to, on his own, and she holds both of them. Finally, hesitantly, Tessie crawls out of the blanket and runs to her, sliding between the others.

The alarm goes off.

People start moving around, in a hurry to be ready for the day. She stays still, sitting on the floor. Raina gently takes the children. Ezri stares after them until she buries herself in my arms.

I hold her for a few minutes, but there is little time for comforting. She looks up at me, anger and grief and confusion mixed together. "Tell him to stay away," she says calmly. "He might not be so patient next time." I understand she means Joran. In case she wasn't impressive enough, I'll add my own reminder.

Then I look into the eyes of my wife. Ezri says, softly, "I just remember wanting to kill him."

But for now we have to be ready. The brief time we have for ourselves is over. "You didn't," I say.

She looks at me, the fear allowed to show. "What if you're not there the next time?"

She hides the pain. All her pent up rage for the last months having been spent, she looks exhausted. But there is work. She lets go of me, still Ezri, and takes the children from Raina. "We've got to get ready," she tells them, and they follow her to the door.

I have serving duty today. I have to change clothes. I rush over to the bin of clean uniforms.

I watch as the man finally moves forward, still shaken. He tries to get past me but I follow him.

I'm next to him now. We're outside and he doesn't dare react to the threat. "Leave my family alone, and the children too. Don't make it any worse for them. I won't stop her next time." Just in case he misses the point, I pointedly glance at Jeffrey. "That is, if she has a chance."

I don't have to say that Ezri will remember him.

"Just leave me alone," he says.

I'm willing to do that if he does the same. We part understanding each other perfectly.

Nobody says a word. But he'll never come near us again.

End, Part 3, Chapter 16 of Surrender


	17. Surrender Part 3 Chapter 17

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 3 – Slavery

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this story:

Life, the Universe, and Everything, by Douglas Adams

Chapter 17

Strange, how you get used to things. Waking with the work bell this morning, I realized I expected to be here. I don't retreat to other places anymore, except our beach and the magical places we go with books. At first, this was a barnyard where you'd keep the farm animals. But now it's our refuge. It's almost home.

Sometime this week we're due for another decon and I'm even looking forward to it. The weather is warm and the fleas came back too soon. And the crews have brought back some greyish little bug that has settled in our bedding. They don't bite, but they tickle when they crawl on you, especially in your hair and beard. The children, working much closer to the field muck where they hatch, are covered with them.

In the morning, we don't rush that much anymore. Everyone knows how long it will take them to be ready, and we take as much time for ourselves as we can.

I hardly notice the day anymore. It is routine. I do what I've done for months and get through it. The best part of the day is when they lock us in for the night.

It's tricky, but we have maybe an hour of light. We read every night now. Since we have the time, we've voted on the book. We picked the Dent book again. We never read the last part, and started there.

Arthur, trapped along with Ford on a primitive Earth, has been alone for a long time. He wakes with a standard early morning yell of horror as he remembers where he is.

"Time is the worse place, so to speak, to get lost in, as Arthur Dent could testify, having been lost in both time and space a good deal. At least in space they kept you busy."

Since parting company with Ford some four years before, he's only had himself for company. I can actually feel sorry for the hapless hitchhiker. Despite our problems, we still have each other, and there is always plenty to do.

Arthur remembers the one strange, odd time when he had a visitor, one who in typical fashion came to insult him. On a spring evening some two years before there were lights flashing through the clouds.

"He turned and stared, with hope suddenly clambering through his heart. Rescue. Escape. The castaway's impossible dream-a ship."

The ship slid gracefully to the earth, "its long legs unlocking in a smooth ballet of technology."

After a ramp descends and light pours out, a tall figure emerges from the hatchway. It proceeds down the ramp until it stands directly in front of Arthur.

"'You're a jerk, Dent,' it said simply."

Arthur is boggled at the strange alien thing, with its peculiar tallness and flattened head and slitty little eyes. Its robes are golden with a peculiar alien collar design. It gazes at him.

"Arthur's first sensations of hope and trepidation had instantly been overwhelmed by astonishment, and all sorts of thoughts were battling for the use of his vocal cords at the moment."

"'Whh . . .?' he said.

"'Bu . . . hu . . . uh . . .' he added."

"Ru . . . ra . . . wah . . . who?' he finally managed to say and lapsed into a frantic kind of silence. He was feeling the effects of not having said anything to anybody for as long as he could remember."

The alien, after a frown, consults a padd of sorts.

"'Arthur Dent?' it said."

"Arthur nodded helplessly."

"Arthur *Philip* Dent?' pursued the alien in a kind of efficient yap."

Arthur tries to get the words to work but all he can do is make sounds. The spindly alien repeats his insult, adding, "a complete kneebiter."

The creature notes something on his clipboard and returns to his ship. Arthur still tries to talk but can't manage more that an "er". The ship rises in the prehistoric Earth's evening.

Arthur finally finds the words, but it's too late by then.

"He jumped and danced until his legs trembled, and shouted till his lungs rasped. There was no answer from anyone. There was no one to hear him or speak to him."

He had just received a visit from Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged, a creature who had found a purpose in his immortality. It wasn't a particularly good one, but at least he had something to do with his infinite life.

He had set out to insult the whole universe, one being at a time. It wasn't easy being immortal. Sunday afternoons took on a terrible listlessness, and it wasn't fun anymore to take the risks, smile at the funerals, and generally outlive everyone else.

I wonder to myself if Weyoun would be relieved if he could go on again, live through a long series of clones. And what happens to Dax when Ezri . . . But it's not time for that. It's time to laugh.

It is wonderful to laugh. Often we read the funniest parts over again. Sometimes we tell stories afterwards, when it's gotten too dark to read, tales from places that have nothing to do with this universe. Later in the year when we don't have the light to read, we will still tell the stories. We will still hold fast to the little of us that is not owned by them.

You have to have something to look forward to. We have our readings-and our children. Tessie is towed around by Molly sometimes, as if she was born her sister. Both of them complain about Yoshi when he's in a mood to cry. Somehow, slowly, we are becoming a family.

After all the pain, it is as if I have entered my own long summer, like the Earth under the aliens. I take each day as it comes, as if this time will go on forever. But I know it will not. The Founders will die and this strange, terrible, comforting world will fall to ruin. Or *he* will call me back with some new demand, reminding me of the price paid before, and the summer will end in sudden storm.

After Wowbagger leaves, it starts to rain. Arthur goes to his cave and makes a rabbit pouch he thinks might be useful to put things in. Even when you're stuck alone on a primitive Earth you need some kind of plan.

It is getting dark, and the book is returned to me. I carefully put it away while we begin story time. Even Sloan tells stories. Last night he told us about Humpty Dumpty. Before, he told us the tale of the Emperor's New Clothes.

He started joining in on our stories a little while ago when he and Nancy started to share their blankets. He spends most of his free time with her now. I am relieved to left alone, though I keep an eye on him.

Odd how useful fairy tales can be. The minstrels who originally told them to get past the king's spies would be proud of us.

Now, nobody bothers the children when they play. It's the only chance they have for a childhood. They are still growing up too fast. Even if Humpty Dumpty shatters into a thousand pieces of ash, they have still been robbed of their youth. And we have no home. Nobody can put it back together again either. Slarti can't build us a new Earth, no matter how much we wish he could.

Today I saw Kira. She's been gone from here for months, and I wondered if Odo had managed to be with her somehow. But he was nowhere to be seen. I wonder where they'd put him. Genetically, he'd been made human and we are divided by species. The crew I was serving was a sarki group of Bajorans, but still I was extremely surprised when she came up to my cart to take a plate.

I didn't look at her and she mostly ignored me. But for just a second, she flashed me a look. We gave each other a little bit of support, and she rushed on with her food. I made sure I kept to my own job the rest of the time I was there.

But I guess being Odo's lover helps. They made him into a solid, but where she is they have benches to sit on when they eat. And they had fruit. Even among castes, there are layers.

I guess Odo is behaving. Well, he's taking care of Kira. That's what matters to him. We all do what we have to.

I try to cope with Ezri and her shifts in personality. Sometimes I do not recognize her at all. Before work she takes the children and marches out with confidence, and it is as if Jadzia was standing there. But the hardest time is when there is bad news, or trouble, and she adopts Curzon's cynical dissolution.

I know she is afraid of Joran. Perhaps, letting Curzon dismiss the fears is her way of coping. She's doing what she has to too but sometimes it's hard to watch. It reminds me of how much I've lost.

Tomorrow I rotate back to scrub crew. The last time I managed to find a few bites of fruit. We're just as invisible on scrub, but we don't have to deal with anyone.

That way I don't have to come face to face with anybody I know. I'll have a little more time in the morning since I won't have to change. If I had a choice, I'd take scrub over serving. Being invisible is useful sometimes. People don't notice you're there when they sneak in a conversation.

There has been very little trouble since the last batch of new prisoners taken to the barred compound. Security is a little more relaxed and people dare to slip in a quick conversation when they can. We have gotten to be very good listeners.

Something is up. They are pushing the others, demanding more of them than before. Maybe our timetable was off a little. Maybe the victors are getting itchy for more.

I wish the months would go by faster and this could end. They should die, but that is the only certainty. All the rest is an unknown. Knowing that there is an end helps me pass the time.

Sometimes I realize I'm lucky, knowing there is an end, and wonder how the others cope. Or perhaps they are the lucky ones for they don't have to hide the anticipation-or dread-that will only get worse when the time comes closer, when the imposed order we live under now disappears and we have chaos.

I must believe it will work out. Anything else is unthinkable. But then, if losing was unthinkable why are we here?

o0o

Tonight, outside there was much noise–loud voices and transports, signs of trouble and perhaps another parade of misery. It's been going on all night. There have been rumors that the camp is being expanded, prisoners from elsewhere being brought here, but people are getting more cautious since the Bajoran's fire and the results. We're very careful now not to openly defy the rules.

But the noise is keeping me awake, wondering if we'll have to watch as they empty the compound again or there will be more hands to do the work after tonight. I don't know which would be better for us. If they aren't sarki, then we'll have more people to serve and the day will be even longer.

But the noise stops, and I'm almost asleep when we hear the door open. This has never happened, not this late, and everyone is instantly awake, worried about the break in routine. But it closes soon after, the sound of someone stumbling the only clue.

There was a flash of early dawn through the door. Someone is sitting on the matts near the door, just staring. I'm too far away to see him, but the people in front can.

"It's Carl," says one of them, astonished.

Cheryl is out of her blankets immediately, rushing past everyone to him. Even from the center of the room, I can see him jerk back when she approaches, then her sudden retreat.

I decide to look for myself, disentangling arms and legs from Ezri and Tessie, who'd had a bad dream and was being held. I step forward into the dim light, and stop.

He's naked. He's just sitting there, filthy and thin, but not as bad as we would have expected. He doesn't even seen to notice his nakedness. He's not looking at anything, his eyes unfocused, utterly still.

Cheryl approaches again, cautiously this time. "Carl?" she says. She pats her stomach. "Carle, your daughter, is already born. But she's fine, she's beautiful. Do you want to see her?"

He doesn't respond and she stays back, keeping her distance, now completely uncertain what to do.

Then Nancy is there. She pulls Cheryl back. "Don't touch him. He isn't ready for that yet." She walks forward, almost to Carl. She has a blanket which she holds out to him. "Here's your blanket," she says.

She drops it in front of him. He doesn't move at first, but then gradually, carefully he takes it, holding it to him.

It's grown light enough I can look him over. He's dirty, branded like we'd seen before. There is an additional small brand on his shoulder, one of ownership. Cheryl has seen it now, is staring at it. She doesn't look surprised. But she has no idea what to do or say, given his instant retreat.

Nobody really expected him back, though Luther had speculated on it. If, I think, this still, stunned man can be called Carl anymore.

Nancy takes hold of the blanket, motioning Cheryl back. "Come back here and rest now," she says. He holds tight to the blanket, finally looking at her, shaking his head. "You can't stay there or people will step on you." She pulls harder and he gets to his knees, then stands, keeping away from everyone, letting her drag him back to his own matts, his own family. She watches as he wraps the blanket around himself, tightly as to shield him from any touch. Then he stares at the children, rolling as far from them as he can.

She keeps Cheryl back, watching as he stops moving, looking Cheryl in the eye. "Don't touch him. You'll just make him run. Keep the children away too. It's hard but he isn't ready for family right now."

Luther is watching her, still sitting on their matts. I notice he can't look at Carl. She takes Cheryl's hands, looking at her.

Cheryl looks back at Carl, now lying on his side, as far from the children as he can get. "That's not Carl. He wouldn't do that."

"Give him time." Nancy forces Cheryl to look at her. "Just let him be for now."

Cheryl quietly walks back to their matts. She sits near the children, holding Carle, looking at her father. Calla moves near her, staring. She takes her children in her arms and turns away.

Across the room, Jeffrey is watching. It's too far away to be sure, but I imagine that I see satisfaction in his look. Realand just sits behind him, looking away, and I wonder if he's thinking of Elaine and her fate.

Others glance at the matts, Jackson not moving now, trying not to stare. I get a work uniform from the bin and give it to Cheryl. Carl appears to be asleep, and she lays the clothes near him.

Perhaps tomorrow I can do a better examination. Cheryl has to work now, but one of the other women, hurt in a fall, watches the children. But with the warmer weather and fields full of crops, all but the smallest children go to work. Molly troops out with her mother each day, and children only a little older than Tessie go as well.

Carl doesn't move when the work bell rings, everyone watching just in case. Cheryl leaves the clothes near him, and his food as well as he hasn't responded to it yet. When we return, he's eaten and is lying in his blanket, the clothes ignored. He tenses as she enters, watching alertly without saying a word.

Completely lost, Cheryl looks toward Nancy. Food will be arriving soon and we aren't supposed to bring bowls inside. Nancy steps up to him, pulling off the blanket as he retreats. "Get dressed," she orders. "You need to get dinner."

Her tone is confident, expecting him to obey. Slowly, he pulls the uniform towards him. We leave him be as he pours himself into it, awkwardly fastening the front. He tugs at it here and there, as if it feels odd. But looking at Nancy, he slowly sits, watching the door.

He doesn't say a word. He waits, tense, watching everyone around him as if he was an injured animal surrounded by a pack of snarling predators. When we're called to dinner, he moves quickly, cautiously never getting near anyone. He sits by himself, eating quickly and resuming his wounded stance. He follows us back inside afterward, returning to his side of the matts. Cheryl moves away, closer to the children, and sits with them while we read.

Carl sits alone, the blanket around him as if it were a moat. But he closes his eyes and listens, and when the reading is done collapses back in a heap. Cheryl still keeps away, but he is no longer so stiff.

Tomorrow he'll have to work, and he knows it. He can't deal with any of us, his mind still lost in a nightmare none of us can imagine. But for just a moment, reading about Arthur Dent and his lost life, Carl smiled a little.

It's almost dark now. Almost everyone is asleep. But Luther is restless, finally sitting up, his hands shaking. Nancy wakes as well, taking him in her arms, holding him as if he was a child. Gradually, he puts his own arms around hers and they slide down in their blankets.

Someday Carl will be able to let his wife hold him, touch him, but for now he's still too lost and utterly alone.

Maybe Carl will never be the same, emerging in measured steps to be a stranger we'll have to get to know. But we can give him time. We'll let him be, watch and carefully keep important conversation away.

Who knows what he'd tell them, how much we can trust him now. We still own ourselves, despite the brand on our hands.

Nobody really knows about Carl anymore.

o0o

Sloan doesn't get to serve. He can't stop the trembling of his hands and he drops things. Sometimes, he starts to talk to himself and won't stop. The guards ignore him now. He's been relegated to the jobs where it doesn't matter if he goes off into himself.

I still wonder what they did. Once, when we had the lab, I scanned him with a tricorder. There was nerve damage. I would have tried to help him, but both of us knew it was too big a risk. They hurt him more before he was returned, but we are strictly denied medical treatment now. Even if I knew what was wrong, there is nothing I could do.

I'd have never believed that the cold man who tormented me could be broken so badly, but I think now that he'd already been destroyed, long before Weyoun and his monsters came near. Looking at Jackson, I wonder that I never saw it before, the coldness, the subservience hidden by arrogance. Carl is owned by a man, but Luther was owned by an organization. Whatever his life was before, 31 replaced it with the one they dictated.

Weyoun had him broken again, and judging from the way he won't look at Carl they may share the same kind of nightmare. But in a way the complete destruction of the agent for 31 left him reborn as well. Where Carl is cold and almost arrogant, Luther is careful, but he loves Nancy. He has been given back something he'd lost. Despite the trembling hands and distant moments, he is more free than before.

Still, he babbles more now, and gets lost inside his nightmares. I worry that one of these times when he starts talking he'll say the wrong thing and somebody will be listening.

But eventually he stops and is relatively normal. He gets confused about where he is, how he came to be there. But he never asks. Aside from the mumbling, he hardly ever says anything. We were astonished when he started telling stories.

When she can Nancy holds him, and he grows quiet. They curl together at night in their blankets, and I hope he has a beautiful beach to lie on but doubt it. At least he has Nancy. I am glad for him, but it must be hard for her.

At least Ezri remembers bits and pieces of when she's not herself.

She is always Ezri when we read. Even Sloan stops his mumbling and concentrates. We're following Arthur's final adventure quite slowly, with little time to read. But that few minutes we have to dream makes the rest of the day pass much more quickly. The work expected of us is still as hard, but eventually you get used to anything. It no longer matters what we do. At the end of the day we take back our lives for a little while.

Even Carl listens. He still closes his eyes, the tense stance relaxed for a little while. He sleeps better. The day after his return he fell and I had a scrape to treat. He allowed me to touch him, but just barely. I did a cursory exam, and kept the evidence to myself of the cruelty of the man who had bought his soul. But in the book he's free. When we read before sleep he can escape from his bonds a little while.

Arthur's long isolation has ended, Ford finally having returned. Arthur was in a cheerful mood, having decided before Ford's unexpected arrival to copy Ford's example and go mad as a way to better pass the time. But the now battered Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic had lured Ford back to sanity and he has come to rescue the Earthman.

Their means of escape is a velvet paisley-covered Chesterfield sofa which has appeared in the middle of a field, drifting in from the eddies of the space-time continuum. Ford advises catching up with the piece of irrational furniture.

"Ford and Arthur pounded chaotically after it, but it dodged and wove as if following its own complex mathematical topography, which it was. Still they pursued, still it danced and spun, and suddenly turned and dipped as if crossing the lip of a catastrophe graph, and they were practically on top of it. With a heave and a shout they leaped on it, the sun winked out, they fell through a sickening nothingness and emerged unexpectedly in the middle of a pitch at Lord's Cricket Ground, St. John's Wood, London, towards the end of the last Test Match of the Australian series in the year 198-, with England needed only twenty-eight runs to win."

My London, the one now ground to ash, springs to life in my imagination. There is discussion about the sudden appearance of our rather tattered castaways, and especially about the Chesterfield, but with typical British civility, Ford and Arthur end up in the refreshment tent drinking tea. Once his awareness returns to his body, Arthur relishes the cup of tea. He is home. Journey over. But Ford has to ruin it by telling him the Vogons are only two days away.

Sometimes even tea doesn't help. Even his towel has changed from blue with yellow stars to pink. But Ford is acting more odd than normal. And a small boy insists on insulting him in the same words Wowbagger had before. Arthur isn't so sorry that Earth will be demolished in two days this time.

Then Ford sees the S.E.P. An S.E.P. is also known as Somebody Else's Problem. If you don't expect to see it you won't. I suppose I understand the idea all too well. But in this case it turns out to be a spaceship carrying the spectral form of Startibartfest, who just happens to like English cricket.

The match ends, but everyone's day is interrupted by another ship with a group of robots who play their own match, leaving a smoldering mess of the grass, and take the ashes held by the winning team.

Some days you just can't win. And it wouldn't matter in two days anyway. And in the end they get commandeered by Slarti to solve and ancient mystery they'd rather not.

And we think we have problems . . .

o0o

I'm still on scrub duty and can't help but notice how tense everyone is. Our routine never varies, but for the rest it has changed quite suddenly.

It's frustrating that I haven't been able to find out why. Occasionally people sneak in a conversation, but it's never been about anything important. Somehow the reason for all the change is too dangerous to talk about.

It's late in the summer, and the field crew is busy. None of them are back and we are fed dinner by ourselves. A few of us have been left behind to prepare their dinner, and the rest are trying to pretend we're not worried as we're locked in.

Realand drags Jeffrey across the room, away from the man he condemned to hell. Before, Jeffrey stared at his father. Now Carl stares back. Once, I caught a glimpse of what so terrifies Realand, and hope Carl is content to only torment the boy with his quiet threats.

Daniel goes to the family matts, trying to conceal his worry as his wife and older children, and the adopted daughter Cindy has become are still missing. They push them a lot now. I've had to treat more cuts and scrapes, and nobody has forgotten what happened to Brenda's friend. I still have a little of the salt, but it is too dangerous to use it unless it is vital, and much to risky to get more. At least most are on the arms and body now, and they are protected from the muck. He takes Alessa from the current babysitter and is teasing her, the little girl giggling.

Carl sits by himself, now used to his uniform but still the cold, heartless man who was sent back to us. He works, both hard and well, and never breaks the rules to talk. The only sort of emotion he's ever showed are the deadly glances at his son.

We didn't expect this, especially not the arrogance. But we can live with it. Everybody's seen the special little brand, heard the stories of what the personal bed-slaves of the calties are used for, how it is the final humiliation.

I am not alone in keeping my tongue around him. He is ignored and mutually ignores us. But he has a wife and children. People break the rules to watch as he acts as if she is invisible, and never reacts to his daughters at all. Somehow, we can't forgive him for that. Even calties have families and take care of them. Carl is breaking *our* rules by ignoring Cheryl and the girls.

But looking at Carl, seeing the poison glances he's given Jeffrey, nobody really wants to discuss it.

Just as they wait until I get the morning's book, and always return it to me when the reading is done. No one has as much as disturbed our blankets. Carl has the potential for danger, but they know I'll keep my promise.

We've moved readings to mornings when there is light. There is never any time in the evening anymore. I miss the evenings we could read. It was a better way to end the day than to begin it. But we will finish the last Dent book, no matter how long it takes to do it.

I started my day considering the morning's reading, and the most recent was particularly fitting, as Arthur has just seen a vastly concentrated summary of Galactic history and is mulling it over.

"Just as a slow series of clicks when speeded up will lose the definition of each individual click and gradually take on the quality of sustained and rising tone, so a series of individual impressions here took on the quality of a sustained emotion-and yet not an emotion. If it was an emotion, it was a totally emotionless one. It was hatred, implacable hatred. It was cold, not like ice is cold, but like a wall is cold. It was impersonal, not like a randomly flung fist in a crowd is impersonal, but like a computer-issued parking summons is impersonal. And it was deadly, again, not like a bullet or a knife is deadly, but like a brick wall across an expressway is deadly."

If anyone ever dares irritate Carl, if he ever acts out the plans written in his eyes, we'll all know about what comes of this cold, impersonal sort of hatred. I might have kicked Jeffrey until he died of his injuries. I have a feeling Carl would be a lot more creative.

The tide of emotionless emotions grows, "to rise to an unbearable if unheard scream and suddenly seemed to be a scream of guilt and failure."

I remembered the moment when Weyoun killed my friend, and how hatred had driven everything else away that might have changed things for Miles and the others. I know he forgave me. But even now I wonder if I might have found another way. It didn't change anything in the end. I defied him, refused to even hear what I was to do. But next time-and I'm certain there will be one-I cannot act so rashly. I almost welcome the busy day so I can put it out of my mind, lose myself in the work, and try to forget. But now it's over and there is nothing to distract me from wondering.

Molly calls me "Daddy" now. She won't talk about the man who gave her life. I wonder if she even allows herself to remember him. Or does she, in her youth, understand the deadliness of the hatred that was screaming in Arthur's mind.

Then the scream stops, and they are standing on a quiet hilltop watching the setting sun of a tranquil evening, walking happily in the "informational illusion" of grass towards a town.

I remember the Alamo, and Vic's, and all the other "places" I've been with the magic of a holodeck. Molly will remember, but only vaguely. Yoshi will not know of it at all.

"It suddenly occurred to Arthur that coming as this did at the end, so to speak, or rather at the beginning, of all the horror they had just blurrily experienced, something nasty must be about to happen. He was distressed to think that something nasty could happen to somewhere as idyllic as this. He too glanced up. There was nothing in the sky."

He was informed that this was the beginning, before all the wars and horrors had destroyed it. But as I stare at the door, waiting, I am certain that we, too, are on the verge of more random acts of darkness. Everything is so busy, with the other crews being rushed far more than usual. I'm almost grateful that we can still rely on days without surprises. They never bode well for us.

I'm watching the glow of sunset as it's reflected through one of the barred windows. I'm forcing myself to relax when I notice Sloan standing nearby.

He is looking at me. He moves very close, and I watch with interest as he hesitates.

"They don't pay any attention to me, any of them anymore," he says.

I almost wonder if part of it is an act. But he's having a hard time putting together the words. "Are you all right?" I ask, a little concerned.

He moves very close. "There were a couple of people behind a shed today. They were having a private conversation. I guess they didn't see me." He looks at me, worry written in his eyes. "I heard about the Breen," he adds.

It's hard not to react, to pretend that it's just an ordinary conversation. "What about them?" I ask as casually as I can.

"They ran out on the Dominion. The Dominion didn't like that. They're sending the Jem'Hadar after them."

No wonder everyone was tense, and everything so rushed. The changelings couldn't stand being slighted. They were going to make an example of the Breen now.

Some people never know when to quit. I wonder to myself what will happen when the changelings start to die and they are still in the middle of a war.

Maybe we have a chance after all.

I keep hoping to see some satisfaction in Sloan's eyes, but all I see is worry. I tell myself it's because he's been too badly damaged. I hope that's why.

The door opens and our families enter, and there is a general sigh of relief. Dinner arrives without delay, and we eat quickly. Most people are tired and are soon in bed.

Most of them go straight to spouses and children. Cheryl takes her girls and sits with Nancy. Later, when she has to, she'll go back to her own matts but for now Carl is filling them with his own isolation.

Someone tells a quick story, just because we're used to it by now. I still wish we could see well enough to read. I broke the rules and skimmed ahead myself. I just want to go to sleep with Trillion and Zaphod and the robots determined to take the Golden Ball from the Heart of Gold so they may achieve the Universal Readjustment. I want to find out what happens to Zaphod after they shoot him (twice, even). I want the evening light so we may dream of more than the cold greyness of our own lives. At least, there are stories.

Ezri is tired and warm and sleepy, but she notices. "What?" she asks. At least I know she's Ezri right now.

I hold her close, the children already asleep. "Just thinking," I reply as calmly as I can.

"What happened?" she asks.

I debate if I should tell her. It's bad enough that Sloan knows the secret of the Founder's fate. All she knows is that the cure is a lie but none of the details. I love Ezri, but can I trust her?

Well, word will spread anyway. She'll figure it out on her own.

"It's the Breen. There's another war, this time with the Breen for running out on their allies."

She looks at me, worry mixed with satisfaction. Then, abruptly, she isn't Ezri. Her face is older, and more cynical than the woman I remember. "Don't be too pleased," she says, and I recognize the intonation. Odo had sounded like that when he'd hosted Curzon. "Don't celebrate until you know how it ends."

Kira says we have to keep hope alive, and the war with the Breen could bring about an end to this in time. Curzon, tempered by his own experiences, understands the enormous risks that we get caught in the middle.

But at the internment camp, the only thing that mattered was the belief it would work, and the courage to risk being wrong.

I nod. "I won't. But it gives us a chance."

She nods. "A chance . . ." and Curzon disappears.

Ezri looks blank for a moment. I wait to see who comes next. She is exhausted. She looks up at me for a moment, still a little lost. "Maybe they'll kill off each other," she murmurs as she falls asleep.

I stare at the twinkle of stars that show through the window, wondering if there is anything left to wish.

o0o

Everyone knows now. It was officially announced last night.

It was raining, a miserable warm late summer rain that has made the air muggy and turned the ground into mud.

It was a quiet night. Everyone was tired after the long day, but stunned by the news as well. That they intend to punish the Breen is no surprise. But nobody can tell how much it will effect us. We don't know if we should hope that the Breen are victorias, if any loss by those who hold us is a victory for us, or if our own bitter memories of the Breen should be remembered first. They defied the Dominion, but they tortured us.

What would we think of the Cardassians if there were still any Cardassians alive?

This morning we almost didn't read. But it is habit, and we need our rituals, those moments we own for ourselves. I pull out the book, as always giving it to Raina who hands it to the first reader. Ritual is important and that is part of it too.

It's Daniel again. He holds the book carefully, not bending it too much so the spine won't be bent, turning it around in his hands as he reads. He's still never said what he did, but while everyone holds the books with reverence, Daniel is especially careful.

His High Judgmental Supremacy, Judical Pag, L.I.V.R. (the Learned, Impartial and Very Relaxed), Chairman of the Board of Judges at the Krikkit War Crimes Trial, is mulling over things as the fate of the Krikkit robots is being decided by the victors, everybody else, in this case.

He comments that you wouldn't necessarily want to share a Galaxy with these guys . . .

Of course, there is always someone you could say that about. Sometimes they are even the same species as you.

In the case of Arthur's universe, the Krikkit robots launched a sudden, surprise attack on the rest of the universe, with thousands of ships which simultaneously attacked thousands of major worlds, taking what they wanted and wiping them out of existence.

It was a big shock to the galaxy, experiencing a rather good period of peace and prosperity, sort of like being mugged in a meadow.

In the judges view the Krikkit robots were a little too *obsessed*. It was about the only explanation of why they did it-to wipe out anything and everything that wasn't Krikkit.

Too bad for the Breen that they hadn't figured this out before.

Striking terror, usually very short lived, in the hearts of all they encountered, the savage, single-minded flying battle machines used battleclubs which used one way knocked down buildings, another fired blistering Omni-Destructo Zap rays, and a last, rather final way, destroyed suns.

Eventually the rest of the Galaxy won anyway, even if it took approximately two thousand years at a cost of two grillion zilched guys.

So now they have a trial going. It features a shielded group of representatives of the people of Krikkit, looking at the rest with polite loathing, and Judicary Pag, aware he was at the center of the most momentous occasion in legal history.

Of course, he strives for a balanced view. Sticking his chewing gum to his chair, the courtroom in grim silence, he allows they have their own view of the universe. Mostly they wanted the universe to themselves.

Making the clerk remove a cup of water which tasted *odd* he comes up a plan, a brilliant plan which makes everyone happy.

First, the people of Krikkit would be encased in an envelope of Slo-time, inside of which time would continue as it had always been, or seem to. Actually, it would go very very slowly, while they'd be invisible to everyone else.

Eventually the rest of the Universe would come to an end and they'd emerge, alone in a universe that they didn't have to share with anyone. The trap would be locked with a special key, a Wikkit Gate.

Then the judge retired for a Sens-O-Shower with a rather nice member of the jury he'd already slipped a note to earlier.

Simple. Easy. Brilliant. But even the best plans go ary. They missed one Krikkit warship and it destroyed both the gate and the key, and Zipo was momentarily distracted as his friend was rubbing his back on the sunny beach.

I guess all plans can go ary. They feel so safe, what with the key destroyed now. Who thinks the Krikkit's could ever get out at all?

Still, the Krikkits lost. We like that idea. We could do without the two thousand years and two grillion zilched guys. But we don't think about that kind of thing anymore.

I glanced at Sloan, though. If the best laid plans of His High Judgmental Supremecies could fail, anybody's could. Even ours.

Of course, the Jem'Hadar are less evident now. The calties are no more welcome and someday will make much better targets. The Breen will kill a lot of Jem'Hadar before it's all done.

Privately, I wonder if they won't be doing Weyoun a favor. When the Founders die, there won't be as many around to worry about.

The book is handed back to Raina, and she brings it to me. But the day has changed from one overshadowed by doom-the Breen really don't have a chance and we'll probably see the few survivors if they let there be any-to victory. The Krikkit Robots were fearsome and mean, methodical and dangerous, but they *lost*. And with their planet wrapped in the time shield, when they get out it won't much matter to anyone but the diners at the Restaurant, waiting for the universe to end.

The Dominion holds us captive-keeps us as slaves-but only for now. When they fall, we'll make sure they never bother us again, though I doubt there will be any thought to their own view of the universe by then.

It helped make the miserable wet day a little more liveable. For many of us, used to life on the station or from carefully controlled climates, rain is something long forgotten and the constant wet is more miserable than for others. And the mud is worse, covering everything, tramped inside on clothes and shoes, sticking to hair and bedding. I'm soaked to the skin, and my shoes are thick with half-dried mud. And it's only the beginning of the area's rainy season.

All I want is to get dry and go to sleep. But it's noisy, and I'm half awake when the door opens and a whole new group of people are shoved inside before it is locked.

This time there was no noise, no transports, just a gust of wetness and the new arrivals.

It's almost dark, but we can see well enough to tell they are dazed, mostly staring at the marks on their hands and us. Someone hesitantly asks, in standard, "Where are we?"

I haven't touched Danni's book in a long time, but I know it too well. I understand how these new people might feel, suddenly shoved into a strange new place. And I also understand how those already there within the Sanctuary Districts must have reacted as more and more were crowded inside, as the little space they had to themselves slowly disappeared.

They'll be bled, just to make sure they aren't changelings. I know there is no need, that if they are spies they are more likely to be humans with rewards waiting at the end of the secret, but I can't tell them.

Not that we do anything that would get us in trouble, at least in the open. But new arrivals make everyone nervous at first, give us a feeling of our private lair having been invaded by intruders.

The children are awake and Molly is staring at the new people, watching as they clutch their own children's hands. Ezri watches them with a cynical expression, all Curzon at the moment.

"Bajor," comes the answer. "Where are you from?"

"Mars," says one of the men. "We worked at the Utopia Planetia yards. They destroyed everything, and took all the survivors with them."

Ezri mutters, "Hardly a surprise," under her breath. Lately it's hard to tell where she leaves off and Curzon begins. She can't express the anger she feels, but Curzon can dismiss it in cynical words.

Someone else adds, "They emptied everything near Earth after they were done there." His tone is bitter, and scared. "We're being deported all over. Some of the colonies kept fighting back until they killed everyone in them."

We're stunned. Somehow, we know Earth is gone. But there were other places we had made into copies of home. Everybody hoped to see one of them again someday, just to remember.

They must be gone, too.

Ezri starts to say something, but I stop her with a look. I love her. She's dealing with this in her own way. But right now, I can't take it. She shrugs.

The door opens again and the newcomers move quickly out of the way. A bin is pushed inside and the door is again shut tight. It has bedding and mats for them.

I realize they have nothing but the clothes they were given after capture. For them, this place must be luxury. We keep our opinions to ourselves. In a way, I suppose we feel lucky.

It is pitch dark by the time everything is divided and spread out but people are still in shock, still asking questions.

"What do you do?" someone asks, very hesitantly.

"Field work, feeding the others, cleaning, that kind of thing." The mention of food brings silence. Someone else adds, quietly, "The food's boring, but there is usually enough."

There are sighs of relief and anticipation. I guess they won't mind the lumps or the stale taste.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, takes it toll and everyone falls asleep.

In the morning, they are unnerved by the bell. We go about our usual business until it occurs to us that nothing is usual today.

Not trusting them to respect *our* rules, we don't do any reading.

Other groups like ours have had new additions and they are all gathered together in the morning. Now, there are twice as many of us. I'm back on serving, which means dragging a heavy cart around in the mud all day. The only good thing is I get to change into a dry uniform.

They are counted and given the lecture about rules while we start the normal morning routine. They look very nervous as they are parceled out between groups, and the largest amount sent to the fields.

The others are given to us to train. We do our best, wishing we were not reminded so clearly of our own beginnings here. It's new to them, and a hard reminder to us that we long ago stopped thinking of what takes up our days. For a little while the usual routine will be harder to stand, until we remember how to forget again.

o0o

Once, long ago on our now lifeless planet, people guided their lives by the seasons. They celebrated the gifts of rain and sun and the spring planting, and again in the fall when the fruits of the harvest were reaped. They danced with fires and joy and settled into preparation for the winter. They again celebrated, middle of winter, on the first day that the light of day grew longer, the darkness slowly banished.

They were not forgotten. Even after we had achieved mastery over nature, even when we could make our own rain and enrich the soil exactly as we needed, we remembered their celebrations. Religions had passed them down through time, and even if we did not generally subscribe to gods anymore, we remembered the holidays.

If we, here, the remains of that species and its dreams, could find the means to celebrate we would understand now. The long summer has faded, the muggy days growing colder and more wet by the week. The crops are tall, the daily work less since there is so little to pick of the seasonal ones, now mostly dried to brown vines. We are caught in one of those moments between other moments, when the old work is mostly done and the new not yet begun. The fall harvest isn't ready, but the summer is over.

Most of the assignments are given out by a particular caltie we call "Sir", an older human with thinning hair and a small mustache he chooses to wear. He sets up his table in the morning and aside from regular crews that always do the same job, he and his lieutenants assign the rest to what is needed that day. He makes the decision about the children, and lately has excluded all the younger ones. He's even picky about those who are sick or hurt, much more lenient about excusing us for the day or days.

We have more time for ourselves. The younger children are once more locked in much of the day, and those like Cheryl, who hurt her arm the other day, are left at home to recover.

Carl is working with us today, an unwelcome addition to our crew. More shipments arrived to be transferred to warehouses, things sealed in crates and boxes now, covered in Dominion script. Anyone who can haul heavy things is pulled for the day's duty. Nobody really wants to be around him, the cold mean look in his eyes too much like the guards that surround us. Then Realand falls and hurts his foot, and we haul him outside to be sent back.

Carl hardly ever speaks, and he picks special moments to do it. Standing back, watching as Realand is examined and sent limping away, he drifts inside, waiting until Daniel and I are back to have his say.

Daniel doesn't like him, is nervous around him. Carl moves too close and Daniel drops the tools he's holding, just missing his own foot. "Go ahead," says Carl, "Take a vacation. You'll need it once harvest starts."

We already know. We really don't appreciate being reminded.

He moves out of the way while Daniel picks up the tools. Standing next to me, Daniel mumbles, very quietly, "Maybe he should have an accident. Not just a little one."

I remember when Carl waited with us a long time ago, falling into despair when even Miles got back his family, but his was left missing. The baby was crying last night, and Cheryl was hurting. He didn't even bother to look. Daniel wasn't the only irritated party.

Carl can stay away from the rest of us and nobody will mind. But he's been back long enough that he should have tried to let her near. And the openly hostile looks he gives her do not make it any better. When all you have is family, you don't shove them away. Not every one of the relationships on the matts is perfect, but they take care of each other. Carle's crying kept people awake that had to sleep. Carl *owed* it to the rest to help his wife.

Daniel is annoyed enough to say something. He moves closer to Carl, who is working with the same efficiency he always does. Daniel gets in his way and Carl stops.

"Out of my way," orders Carl.

Daniel looks him over. "Not until I want to. I don't take orders from ratflaga."

Carl backs off, if just for a second. The new underclass has a name too, rat for their position, and flaga, a Cardassian term for that which rises to the top of the sewage. It just isn't used too often. Daniel looks victorias. Carl waits patiently while he moves, for once not looking at him.

Daniel waits until Carl has started working again, stepping in his way. This time Carl just stops, says nothing. "Better help your wife with that baby tonight. I'll make sure to remind you."

Daniel moves further along, setting up the next shipment while Carl finishes the last one. He won't look at me. The anger is still there, but the arrogance has disappeared.

I go about my own business, leaving Carl to his own thoughts. But I feel a little better, just the same. Lost in the shame he won't let us see is the man we knew. Maybe we can find him again some day.

End, Part 3, Chapter 17 of Surrender


	18. Surrender Part 3 Chapter 18

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 3 – Slavery

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Chapter 18

Summer has gone, the evenings growing cooler now, the days growing shorter. The sun sets earlier, but it is so gradual we hardly notice. We might not notice much at all except it gets dark too early. When work runs late-and with harvest it always does-it's dark before we can read most of the time.

Our new additions, now called our Martians, no longer talk about home. They work without complaint or resistance at whatever job Sir assigns them to, giving every impression that they consider themselves quite privileged to be here. They don't notice the bugs or the dirt or the hours. They do notice the food. Sometimes they watch our children with a haunted look, and a sadness that nothing can hide.

Carl never looks at them, but then he hardly notices us either. The Martians carefully avoid him, taking special detours to stay away from his matts. He still ignores Cheryl. Even the Martians obviously do not approve, but none of them are willing to challenge him.

Maybe he reminds them too much of the people they'd known before, the spooky ones who survived however it took, even if the cost ended up destroying them.

Carl pointedly avoids them too. Perhaps he is reminded too much of the rats he'd worked with before his owner took him away from that.

Others have been added and mixed with us, but they are different. Most of their matts are grouped together, as if we are separate from them.

Daniel stares at them sometimes, sitting together in their corner of the barn. He knows a little about what made them so *different* than us. But he's used to us, he and their children and Catherine and Cindy a part of our society now. He had one of our little rooms on the station for a while.

The Martians don't talk much at all. The keep together, listening when we occasionally read, and eating at the same time as the rest, but not *with* us. It is as if we have become two separate societies forced together in the same open barn, and in our own way we keep away from them, strive to preserve what we had before.

But most nights, with the harvest at its peak, nobody is in the mood to talk. All of us are too busy working to think about more than food and sleep when the day ends.

Everything has been reorganized. More prisoners have been added to almost every group. Every bin of grain is used for breakfast, and while we serve it a crew refills them for dinner. It is as if the whole day is repeated twice over.

Very often, we've already been fed and locked inside by the time the field crews return, dusk or later, and they are capable of little more than sleep after a quick dinner.

Usually we don't even try to read, even when there is a little light. It's too late and too dark too soon and we're too exhausted. But everyone misses the books. Even if only for a few minutes, we left this place. Instead, in the dark we tell stories, sometimes retelling the books as folktales. It's different hearing of Dorothy and Ozma in our own words, sometimes getting the small details mixed up, but it connects us to the oldest memories of childhood. Even better, one of the new people-an older woman named Dorothy who often acts as their leader-tells traditional stories as well. The folk tales and tall tales and stories passed down through many generations weave a world around us in the dark. She tells stories of almost all the now obliterated cultures of Earth, and we vow to remember them. We will not let the memory of what we were die so easily.

Dorothy is trying to break the invisible barrier between us, the unofficial line that the matts create, but it will take a lot of time. Or, perhaps, it won't be that hard if everything we were used to keeps changing.

Life was routine before. Now, with all the new people, everything is different. The daily schedule never changed, but now it varies day by day. Our retreat is so crowded, filled with strangers. Worse, the last hopes that some little reminders of home might remain are gone.

The new people with their defeated faces remind us of Arthur reliving the moment he discovered Earth had been vaporized. We cling to Dorothy's stories as a treasure we must preserve, but sometimes it reminds me too much of the Bajorans and their cherished memories of all that the Cardassians had destroyed. We won't forget, will write them down when we can for the future to preserve, but none of it will be real for our children. The world in which we lived will be as much a fairy tale as Cinderella. Alessa Carlan is crawling now, babbling in her baby language, and every time I look at her I wonder if she will grow up as hard and bitter as the Bajorans who no longer understand what they had been.

I understand what Miles tried to tell me. All we can do is try to keep them alive. But in case we didn't understand before, now we know how lucky we are. We have blankets, and shelter and enough food-and the books. The new people accept this place without complaint. Before they had nothing, and the simplest things are wondrous luxury.

And most of all they revere the books. It's late and Ezri and the rest of my family has just arrived, Ezri going to sit with Cheryl for a time to listen as she glares at Carl, when Dorothy comes to stand, hesitant, before our matts.

"I know there is no time to read, but could I hold one of the books, just touch it?" She looks away, not sure enough to look at me. I'm sure she's heard about Jeffrey, but I don't think that is the reason. It's the books themselves. She might have been a teacher, or a wordsmith of story. Perhaps she loved history, the extended passage of our kind. But now she is just a woman who keeps alive memories, who matters as much to us as the books themselves. I wouldn't let the other strangers touch them, but Dorothy is different. I pull out the most proper one, the Oz book, and she takes it lovingly in her hands, holding it as if it was a baby. Eyes closed, she strokes it. Her look dreamy, she carefully hands it back to me.

"If you want, you can read it when it's light," I offer, now an unheard of sentiment in this grimy place. But I trust her to care.

"No, I just needed to feel them." She looks around the room, finally looking at Jeffrey, sitting next to Realand with a blanket thrown around his shoulders. "I know about your promise. It's a good one. Keep it. Those books are worth more than any one of the lives in this room."

I look at her face, set in absolute joy as she watches the book slipped back in its place. "Would you keep my promise too?"

The change is sudden, very disturbing to watch with its reminders of Ezri's slipping personalities. But her face is as hard as stone. "I will keep them safe if you can't." It is a promise carved in stone, made with all the conviction of the passionate patriot. But she is a guardian of our dreams instead.

I nod, disturbed by the reminder of my unwanted ties to Weyoun, and the uncertainty of my own future.

She moves slowly, walking back to her own people. Their children are huddled in the middle of a protective circle, as if we might reach in and steal them. But they are grim children, hardly childlike at all anymore. A few have ventured out to play with ours, but their play is too violent for most of us, too worrisome for parents trying to keep what is left of childhood intact.

For while the Martians do not discuss it, we still have our children. Many of them, like Dorothy, are alone, families long lost. Instead they gather their matts in several large spaces, sleeping close to the others as if it offers some comfort. Some of them just watch our little ones with grieving eyes when we are together. When they were deported, the sick and injured among them were executed. Most of the sick were children. Weyoun wants me near, and that our children have survived justifies the cost I have paid. The others respect that I refused his second demand, but they haven't forgotten that, for now at least, I also saved the Founders. But if we have children who can play it was worth all the loneliness.

At first, our children were delighted with the new families. Molly and Kara still occasionally play with two little girls their age in the morning. The parents watch, enthralled, as slowly their daughters rediscover play. I suppose it is comforting to the parents that our children are still capable of being children, that their daughters might still have a chance.

But so many of theirs are already beyond that. Their parents watch as they play their oddly un-childlike games, hoping they will remember, but not expecting anything anymore.

Occasionally we finish a little early, and there is still enough time for reading. We've all heard the books before, but the new people are fascinated.

The Martians invaded earth again the last time we read. We expected them to say something, but all they did was stare at invisible pictures in their minds as we read. For a while, I suspected they did not see the Martians, and the scene was a bit too real. But then, later, the children were playing war and the tripods always lost.

These books are icons of a lost civilization, but they keep a little of it alive as well.

The new people had nothing but reality. I can't imagine how we'd have coped without the books to offer some escape. But our new Martians remind us that we'd woven some very careful lies and now they've been shattered.

We feel more like prisoners than we did before.

It keeps raining. Gradually the weather is getting colder. We have plenty to do, not only harvest but an unending line of transports to unload, and the water and mud make everything harder.

People are getting sick from the constant dampness. We were all given inoculations for something yesterday. They didn't tell us what it was for, but there have been rumors. I guess, since we handle the food, they don't want us to get sick and spread it to others.

We also had a special decon, just for us. The Martians, not knowing what to expect, were very nervous. It was cold waiting for my turn, but with the encroaching winter there are different bugs and for a while they'll be gone too. Everyone slept rather well last night, despite the residual smell. It was almost like the scent of flowers lingering from a special evening.

Well, we do have *some* advantages.

Before, life became so routine you got used to it. That's impossible now. People are moved from crew to crew. Since the bulk of the harvest is going on, half our scrub crew has been transferred there. We're too tired to do much more than sleep now.

It's been nearly six months. I don't much care what happens when they die. I just want this nightmare of a life to end.

o0o

Ezri is watching as Carl prepares for work. There is no conversation at all between he and Cheryl, and he hardly even looks at the children. She has taken to pretending he's not even there, but you can see that it still hurts.

Despite warnings, from Daniel and others, Carl still won't look at his wife. She often works with Ezri and they are friends. Cheryl maintains he isn't her husband and has suggested he move his matt and blanket to somewhere else.

"You'll be working with him today. See if you can find a place. Please." She says it softly, looking at Cheryl. He still won't tolerate being touched, which most take as a given, but his totally ignoring his wife and family is not welcome. Few really trust Carl. He wasn't supposed to survive being a rat, and that he did raises suspicion he sold more than his body to come home.

"I'll try. If we can." My eyes meet hers, shared worry that he isn't ever going to change, but at least someone should try. I'm not sure I'm the best choice but I did promise Ezri before. The rest know they can call him a name and he'll back off, but they don't have enough confidence to be too direct. Maybe Ezri thinks, considering my warning after Jeffrey, that he will leave me alone if he doesn't like the advice.

I watch as he eats, quickly and without any reaction at all, like everything else he does. He works well; he's gotten the more important, easier jobs because of it. Today they have a lot of transports to unload, and most of us not serving will be doing that most of the day.

Sometimes when inside the warehouse it's safe to talk. The noise of the loaders is enough to cover anything said from prying ears outside. I don't expect him to even respond so it shouldn't be much of an effort.

But when we reach the warehouse, finding myself alone with him in a very noisy loading area, I get one of those unpleasant surprises life sometimes offers.

Carl is indeed in a talking mood. He looks around the room, observing the series of loads the machine is processing. He comes close. "I happen to know my wife has been complaining to yours. I'll spare you the trouble of bringing it up."

He's cold about it, unfeeling. At first, I think he's done and don't particularly mind if he is.

But he is just getting started. "You know why I don't like her touching me."

I've examined him, when he was first sent back. I know what he did to survive. "I've see the results."

"It's not that. Not really." He pauses, thinking. "I gave up feeling anything about that after the first few times." He starts filling a bin, this job small parts emptied from their crates. The machine is in the middle of shuffling another into place and making less noise. He watches as the machine begins its next cycle. "At first, we were part of the rewards for the guards, and as long as it didn't get in the way of assigned work they could have whoever they wanted. After the first few days in the box, you didn't argue." He watches the bin as it moved down the line. "Then he picked me, had me marked, and I belonged to him. It meant I was off limits. I was his personal bedrat then."

I've heard the term. It is startling to hear Carl use it without any feeling at all. "What does this have to do with your wife?"

He won't look at me. "I still belong to him. I always will. Now that he's let me go I don't have to be bothered by anyone." His look is arrogant, but I understand now. One caltie owned him then and no matter how cruel he might be he was off limits to the rest. But that doesn't apply here, in our world. Cheryl and the children are part of our own implied rules, and sooner or later someone will make sure he understands. Cheryl has more friends than he does.

"Not even your *wife*? And what about your children? All she wants is to be let in." I can't imagine shutting out Ezri, no matter how bad a thing had happened.

He turns, looks me in the eyes. His tone is icy. "You don't seem to understand. I don't want her touching me."

He's right, I can't understand. The Carl Jackson that they took worried about them all the time. This icy stranger isn't the same man at all. But I sense something more, something worse than wanting to protect himself. He won't look at me, starts filling crates with much more effort than before.

"You don't know what *she* went through, how hard it was for her to go on when we'd see you for a while, and then you disappeared. She didn't know if you were dead, or . . ."

"Or *what*?" he asks with sneer. He stops working, walking right up to me. "You really think he doesn't own you, just because he's leaving you alone right now. Oh, you'll never be touched, your special goods, but you have a wife. What if you refuse and he decides to deport her? The scum they use in the pens will have their pick, and she's prime meat. How will you feel? Or will you find another way to explain to yourself that you really didn't give in just to keep her here?"

He stares at me. I try to defend myself. "I refused him before. It cost a lot of lives. But I did the right thing." Or did I, asks a small voice inside me. Is his accusation a little too close for comfort, a little too real to deny? But I bury the doubts. I stare back at him. If we were not in the middle of a warehouse with guards outside, the anger would be too much to stop.

He steps back, just watching. "You think I don't care about my wife. You think I refuse to be close because I've forgotten how I felt before. You're wrong."

The coldness is gone, replaced by something different, something harder to watch. His eyes are dead and bleak, lost in his fate.

The bins are all full and the noise is loud. I remember my own need for Ezri to know I hadn't betrayed them, how it was important for someone to know. I wonder if Carl has that same need. "Why, then?" I prompt him.

"Why did he let me go? Have you wondered? I know the rest have. You can see it in the way conversations stop when I come near." He turns away. "You cured the Founders to save your wife. I helped torment a woman to death."

He sits, closing his eyes. I have to get closer to hear his quiet voice. "Since they got rid of the locals around here, there's some big project going on. I don't know what it is, but the shipments the night I was released were brought here to work on it."

It takes me a moment to realize that the shipments were more prisoners, and I watch as he kicks a few fallen pieces around on the floor. I resist the urge to pick them up and not have them be lost. "There is a resistance unit of some sort too, and they caught this woman who'd infiltrated the calties. She looked just like Cheryl, cleaner, longer hair, you get the general details. She was already messed up a bit-questioned, I guess, her back a mess, lots of prod burns. But he wasn't interested in that part of her now. He told her that she could have died easier if she'd talked, with the collar alone, in a dark isolation cell. Now she got to die in agony." He pauses, looks around, not at me anymore. "And I got to be there when he was done."

He's looked away, suddenly quiet. For a moment all the coldness and arrogance is gone, just the pain left. And the shame. "He'd already picked out my replacements and I figured I'd be dumped soon. Usually he has us deported just to make sure we can't say anything. He was in charge of her execution. He ordered me to help."

"You killed her?" I have to ask, remembering Elaine.

"No. Just made her last few hours more miserable than she needed them to be. He used a shrink collar. It's wet leather. You sew it around the throat where they can just manage to breath. Then it shrinks, and eventually it crushes the throat and they suffocate. But they have hours to wait, and he liked it when she tried to scream and would choke instead."

He looks up at me. "I was going to refuse. I didn't particularly care if he killed me then. I'd rather be dead than shipped off to some work crew for a few months or maybe even a few years with nothing but an accident to wait for."

He droops his shoulders. "Then he said he'd take Cheryl instead. He had the authority to get her deported, and he'd have picked her out for himself. I couldn't stand the thought of his filthy hands on her. I know he'd been watching her. He told me a lot of things about her life, made sure I knew the baby was born and all that."

I remember the caltie who came into the barn that day, especially the smile. "He excused me to deliver her," I tell him.

"Don't you see? The only way I can protect her is to look like I don't care?" His shoulders droop and rise and the coldness starts to return. He gives me one last glance before it covers all the pain, almost of gratitude.

"I'll keep this to myself," I tell him as I stand up and start working. We've been talking too long. Neither of us can afford trouble, least of all him. He's not sarki. He will always bear the brand of the underclass and one hint of trouble and he'll be back.

I think of Miles scream as they shot his wife, the relief in my heart that they didn't shoot mine. I don't want to but I understand. What if I hadn't told Ezri about the Founders, would she have abandoned me? Would it have been better?

We work the next hour without comment, Jackson never looking at me, but I can't get my mind off of his words. I've pretended and taken the personal consequences. I've refused and suffered a worse loss. Weyoun will draw me back again and what do I do next? I have a wife and children to protect now. For Carl it was easy, though he is not finding the left overs so easy to live with. His owner will not likely ever bother him again. But Weyoun will certainly make other demands of me.

I owe my family and the ghost of the man who died for me as well. But I can't stand to see Carl push away the only people who can help him.

It's nearly done, our noisy cover almost over. I get his attention, make him look at me. "Look, don't shove her away. It won't matter to the caltie. But those children need a father, and Cheryl needs you. You still need each other."

He pauses, both of us checking for any unloaded cargo, especially anything spilled on the floor. He is near, the coldness fully in place but I can see through it now. "I don't know how to anymore."

"Let her do it. Don't fight her. Just don't be alone."

The warehouse is done. We'll spend the rest of the day on regular scrub work, probably work late. Carl goes with another group and I don't see him the rest of the day, but I notice that night he sits next to his wife to eat. Cheryl looks puzzled but pleased. He doesn't speak to her, certainly doesn't try to touch her, but he's gotten closer than since he returned. It's a start.

Ezri notices, and that night, running her hand down my back as she pulls off my clothes, she murmurs softly, "too bad they took away his beach. Wonder if he'll ever find it again."

I don't know what to say. For Carl all the beaches are gone. The only freedom Carl will know is when the caltie is dead and he might break the chains in his mind. The man who enslaved him will likely never come again, but for Carl it doesn't matter.

But I do not belong to Weyoun. No matter how many times he asks, no matter how many ways I must deal his demands, I will never allow myself to be owned like Carl is.

No matter what happens in the future, I'm still luckier than him. Ezri opens her clothes and slides next to me. I pull them off and she undresses me. The waves are gentle and the breeze is quiet. The full moon shines above us. As long as we have the beach we have each other.

o0o

The fall and the harvest have gone now. The days are icy and a week ago we had our first snow.

Before, most of us had only played in it, if that. Even those who fondly remembered the white cold cover have come to change their minds now that we have to live with it.

Today I am on early crew. There is a dusting of snow on the ground, not so much as the last few days, but it's cold. By morning the drifts have turned icy and we try to avoid them until they melt in the sun. We start the heating units and prepare our group's breakfast. With all the warmers going it's not too bad. The hard part is when we have to haul the carts to the other units in the cold. The coats they've given us help, but don't stop the cold wind that chills through all your clothes.

At least I'm on scrub now. We spend most of our time in the shed where it's warmer. With the field crew working in one of the inside warehouses, the night is the coldest part of our existence, locked inside our quarters in the chill.

The walls would absorb the heat of the day if it was warm enough. But the sun has no real heat and the walls do little to help but keep out the wind, as the first real winter weather of the year begins. Worse, it will just get colder and the snow heavier before spring comes. In the old folk tales, every culture had some celebration for the coming of spring. Now I understand why.

And the monsters should be dead by now. But the camp is still being run at full production, and the war with the Breen is still being fought. There is a lot of movement around camp and we hear all the rumors now. The latest is that the Dominion is sending Jem'Hadar against the Breen in record numbers. Speculation says it's a final push and this miserable war will be over. Most people hope the Dominion wins. The Breen are an unknown. People captured early on remember them too well. The Dominion is still the enemy and we're still their slaves, but at least when the war ends we won't have things quite as hard.

I'm still reminded of my question to Sisko so long ago, amid the misery of a Sanctuary district. We failed to keep paradise, but I think I have my answer now. Most of the people here would rather stay slaves than risk starving in the ruin the Dominion will leave behind.

Most of them believe the massive commitment of Jem'Hadar is a measure of victory. But I wonder. Is there a reason to move the Jem'Hadar far away from the Vorta's established command centers? Sloan gives me worried looks now and then, and I can't forget that I never tested the new disease. But I can never ask Sloan what it was intended to do.

I won't risk my family. We've managed this long, we can hang on for more.

Breakfast is ready. We start the carts towards our quarters, glancing reluctantly back at the warmth. The doors are opened for us, and we push the carts inside.

We've been eating in our quarters for a month now. The little children are of no particular use now that the fields are done, and are left behind with a few of the women hurt in an accident. The children and recovering women never leave this room at all. Since it's light enough, I've allowed them to read some of the books during the day. But I'll roll carts sooner than be locked in all the time.

I finish my serving duty and sit down to eat with the family. We have adopted Kara and her mother. The food is hot and we eat it quickly. Otherwise it gets cold. A warm breakfast is very important right now.

Looking out at the door, still shut, I can't stop asking myself why they aren't dead? Why are we still here, trapped in this place? Was there a mistake made somewhere along the line and they will live on? Better to have refused entirely than that.

The bowls are piled back in the carts, and everyone who's leaving is lined up with their crews. The guards open the door, and we file out to our daily drudgery.

The Martians still gather in their groups, but they aren't strangers anymore. With the cold and the snow and early darkness, we all are a little too resigned about our lives.

Nobody said much during breakfast, and Ezri kisses the children with great affection. She is hardly ever Ezri. It's very jarring to see Jadzia standing next to me, holding Yoshi and comforting Molly, keeping Tessie from running off. But she was always strong, and had integrated all her parts so well that you hardly knew she was a joined Trill. She wanted children so badly. Now she has them. And now, we need her strength.

I think about Worf sometimes. He was on the station when it was taken, but chose his own way out. Those Klingons who didn't are either dead or sent to one of the detention camps where the survivors of his kind have ended up as payment for being so uncooperative.

Sometimes, I am grateful that Ezri was here instead of Jadzia. She'd have been sent away with him, as his wife. She would be dead by now. I don't know what I'd do without her, even if it takes Jadzia to keep her safe.

It's fitting that Jadzia has gotten a second chance. She is a good mother, steady and strong and loving, giving them all the love the hard cold world outside denies them. I'd rather have Jadzia here than Curzon. But then, I'd rather have Curzon deal with trouble than Joran.

Molly hugs me and gives me a kiss, dragging her brother along. He has a cold and I'd rather she let him stay warm. "Yoshi needs to stay in bed," I tell her.

With big solemn eyes she takes his hand and leads him back. Tessie is playing with her doll, and Molly joins in the game. But I can see the terror in her eyes. A couple of children have died of phenomena from colds that did not improve.

I remember the first time I went to Bajor to innoculate a group of children against one of the diseases left behind after the Cardassians departure. It's scary how much Molly looks like them now.

I'm sorry, Miles. I'm trying. I will keep them alive somehow.

But it nags at me that something must be wrong if the Jem'Hadar are being sacrificed at such rates. Maybe we just need to wait a little longer. I wish I knew if it was time to hope or despair.

We leave our families behind, and go our separate ways. We load the other breakfast carts and send the serving crews on their way. The bins are filled with grain and water to soak, and we start washing the trays as the serving crews return.

I'm completely absorbed in work, letting the heating coils and steam keep away the cold, when three Jem'Hadar approach. They come near the shed. I don't hear them over the noise of our work the first time they call my name.

"Bashir, you will come," insists the head guard, louder the second time.

We grow quiet, and I reluctantly pull my wet hands out of the water, drying them on the outside of my coat. I stuff them in my pockets, but my hands are pulled out and manacled behind me. I can feel Carl staring at me, see Realand looking away.

For the first time, I actually want to come back here.

But they march me to a small transport and shove me inside a cell. The door locks and I'm left in the pitch dark.

It rolls out of camp, then I can feel it lift off. I try not to think of why I'm here. But I hope Ezri doesn't worry too much. I know she'll take care of the children if I don't come back.

It isn't a very long trip. We land and sit. My hands are starting to hurt, my fingers growing numb. I just want to get to wherever it is taking me. It lands, and I wait in the dark, staring at the door. And then, finally, it opens.

The Jem'Hadar shove me through a door, the area still in winter, and lead me to a small room where the manacles are removed. I'm ordered to strip.

I obey them and am ordered into a smaller room. The door is locked.

Suddenly I understand when the shower begins. It would be nice if it was a water shower. I let myself imagine warm water running all over my body, with the warmth and relaxation filling my mind. But I'll settle for a sonic shower.

It's been months since we had any kind of bath. I'd ceased to think about the general filth and stink. Everybody else smells so we don't notice it anymore. Occasionally we get rinsed off a bit in the rain, but other things have come to matter more than being clean.

It lasts a long time. I would have had it last longer. I'm released and clean clothes are tossed at me by a guard. These clothes are really clean ones, not the half-rinsed greyish things that pass for washed at home. I slide them on my clean body, allowing myself to enjoy the luxury.

It's easier than thinking about why I am here.

The manacles are replaced. They are very tight. I'm led down a long corridor to an office. They shove me in the door and wait.

"Take off the manacles," orders Weyoun.

We must still be on Bajor. Why is Weyoun here and what does he want with me?

I stand rubbing my wrists, noticing the slave mark burned into my hand. I keep remembering Carl's warning, especially the part about Ezri, and remember there is still something worse.

Though, oddly enough, Weyoun is nervous. He tries to look preoccupied, but he's not paying any attention to the padd he's holding. "Leave us," he orders the Jem'Hadar guards. He watches as they exit, staring at something on his desk, still trying to cover his nerves.

I wait where I stand, trying very hard not to show how much I want to kill him. I know the Jem'Hadar can be back in an instant. But I still can't help but wonder why he would leave me alone in a room with him.

I say nothing, show none of the hate flowing through my veins. I think of Molly and her brother, of Tessie, of Kara and her mother, and my Ezri. They are still hostages. I couldn't bear to lose them. I force myself to behave. I may still refuse, but I will know what I'm to do at least this time.

He stands suddenly, brushing past me. "Come," he orders.

I follow him as he goes through a second door. We are in an infirmary, quite well equipped and stocked. On the single biobed in the room lies the male changeling, obviously quite ill.

Our timetable was off, but it worked. I do not show the satisfaction deep inside me. I do not let myself feel the worry. What if they don't die, but just fade very slowly. What sort of havoc could they cause before they go?

Weyoun looks at the bed. "Doctor," he says.

Doctor. I glance at my hand. I wish he'd make up his mind.

"The Founder took ill several months ago. He grows very weak when he takes new forms, and it has grown worse in the last few weeks. You know as much about the Founder's biochemistry as any of our people and you will use that knowledge to serve the Dominion."

I don't want to serve the people who've enslaved me. I don't want to touch the monster who should be dead by now. But there is Ezri and the children, and my promise to Miles. And, I admit, a lot of curiosity about why he's still alive.

"I'll need equipment and some samples," I say quietly, not looking at Weyoun or the Founder.

"All you'll need has been provided. When you have found some sort of answer, you will be returned to your family."

No deals then. No promises dangled in front of me. No temptations to be like the people who run the camp for them. Good. It's easier that way. I couldn't stand to be like them.

I won't look at Weyoun, even if he wants me to. But there is something curious about his tone. He is very worried. And there is a great deal of arrogance there too.

If the Founder's die, the Jem'Hadar will kill the Vorta before they kill each other. They despise them. Weyoun has to know this.

I wonder if he isn't planning to tell them. There are no Jem'Hadar in evidence except the two who brought me here. I'm sure there are guards, but I wonder who he's got to fill the role.

"May I examine him?" I ask. I can't deny the curiosity about what we did and how it may not have worked.

"Please," says Weyoun. He hands me a tricorder himself.

I scan the Founder. He has taken a solid form, the same half-defined form Odo usually adapted. But he's very weak. He is only half-conscience. "How long ago did he morph?" I ask, for the first time the fascination with the medical problem overcoming my great distaste for the idea.

"Perhaps an hour," says Weyoun. "This condition has become much worse in the last week. Before that it wasn't immediately noticeable."

"What happens when he returns to his natural form?" I ask, almost forgetting who I'm addressing.

"Much the same, Doctor." He walks over to the Founder. "There has not been the time to organize much research into this condition. I have what is known already provided in your laboratory. I believe the Founder should rest now."

Weyoun ushers me out of the room, to another corridor leading to a locked door. He opens it himself, and I enter.

It is as well stocked a lab as at Starfleet Medical. I'm astonished I'm being allowed access to so much equipment. There is even a replicator. But I think of Ray. He's probably dead by now. All he wanted was a piece of fruit for his daughter. Weyoun wants much more, and looks to be willing to provide whatever it takes to get it.

I keep thinking of Carl, how he saved his family, how he sold his soul. I've cheated and refused. Now, looking at the lab, perhaps it is time to cooperate. The changelings will die anyway. I'd like to know why. And I want Ezri and Raina and the children to have a chance to survive.

There is always something worse. He may call me Doctor and let me have this lab, but my hand bears the truth. "You'll work here for the immediate future, and be confided during the night." He looks up, unexpectedly, and I hear a hint of desperation in his voice. "For you own protection, of course."

From whom, I wonder? The Jem'Hadar? My own people who have the wrong idea? But I think he's sincere about that.

I know when he has to he'll use Ezri and the others as a threat, especially with the hints of desperation. Is he keeping me safe from some unknown elements among a resistence group? Is he worried the Jem'Hadar and others who worship the Founders as gods will prevent my efforts as if I was really out to destroy them?

Is Weyoun starting to grow a little paranoid, and for good reason?

He leaves me alone. I delve into the files, detailed samples and scans of not only this but other changelings that are afflicted. All in all it's rather well organized for something not yet coordinated.

I think I know why. Weyoun, or perhaps the changelings, are keeping this quiet. Massive numbers of Jem'Hadar are sent to fight the Breen. The Jem'Hadar need not go on a rampage if they aren't told the gods have perished.

I wonder why Weyoun hasn't been replaced by now, with the arrogance he's showing. Or perhaps he can't be. Damar did his best to destroy cloning facilities.

Other guards appear at the door when I'm retrieved hours later. I've had my fill of food from the replicator they provided. But there are no Jem'Hadar. I don't know the name of the species, but remember them being shown a long, long time ago in a briefing as a Dominion ally-but not one genetically programmed to follow.

My original guards are dead. Their bodies are lying in the corridor. I wonder if Weyoun shot them himself.

We set out to kill the Founders so the Dominion would become so unstable we could break free of it. But what if it goes on anyway? We're still the one's with symbols on our hands.

I stop in front of the door as ordered. It is opened. It is neither a cell nor a room, but a little bit of both. Two bunk beds are along one side. There is a table and chairs. A bookshelf has books sitting in view.

There are no windows, but it's warm and dry and I feel incredibly lucky.

It is already occupied. I'm stunned to see Odo come out of a smaller room. Disheveled, his hair hanging down in shaggy lumps, he watches both me and the guards with caution.

The guards leave and close the door. I thought he was cooperating. But he looks too confused and depressed for that. He says nothing, but walks towards me. "Doctor?" he asks as if he isn't sure who it is.

"Bashir," I say. "Yes, it's me."

He continues to stand there, just staring. "Human's don't have names," he says. "The only humans with names are collaborators."

The last time I saw Odo, Miles died, torn apart by Jem'Hadar bayonets. His wife died from multiple hits from their rifles. Their children are mine now, and I cannot let more die because Weyoun wants to play games. I found a way out the first time. Somehow, I will this time as well. Even if they consider me a collaborator I won't let any more of my family or friends die.

I keep remembering Carl's face when he told me about Cheryl, how the caltie wanted her and would take her if he didn't do as told. He was ashamed. So am I. But I also remember Miles lying in a puddle of blood, and know Carl wasn't exaggerating about what Ezri would become should she be deported.

But that is private, not for Odo to know. I send away the shame.

Except for when they took me off crew to bring me here, they haven't used a name in months. I understand what he means, and have to defend myself. "I'm not a caltie," I tell him, openly insulted, rubbing my beard. "I was taken out of my crew and brought here. Nobody asked if I wanted to come."

He eyes me cynically. "You are cooperating, are you not? You look a little clean for a sarki."

I've know the word. I don't appreciate him using it. I wonder if every place there are kasari there is a version of it to let the others feel superior to someone. "I didn't ask for the shower either," I say. But I did enjoy it. When they send me home I'll feel dirty again, and I'll notice how filthy the rest are.

They will all notice me, too. I'll pay for the replicator, and the clothes and the shower. Now and then suspected collaborators have been found dead, or suffered unexplained accidents. I will not be forced to shave off the beard. It is my claim to innocence.

I have a family. I promised Miles I'd keep them safe. It was simple before. The Jem'Hadar were the enemy, are the enemy. Weyoun wouldn't hesitate to dispose of my family if I don't cooperate.

But if I do, I might wake with a knife at my throat, and nobody will notice. If I can't convince Ezri to trust me it could be her hand holding the knife. I'm not sure how much control she has over Joran.

I lose either way.

"I have a family. Weyoun will deport them." I stare back at him.

"They all have families," he grumbles. He studies me. It occurs to me that he has Kira, too.

The statement must remind him, since he moves closer to me, concern written in his eyes. "How is Kira? Have you seen her? I have asked but they won't give me any answers."

There is desperate worry in his eyes. It is the same kind of terror I know when I think of Ezri.

Weyoun must be keeping Odo isolated, just in case. No wonder he's so bitter.

"I haven't seen her in awhile, but she looked okay," I say. Months ago, but then I suspect she will still be quite safe. Weyoun won't lose his bargaining chip.

Odo looks at my hand, scowling. Glancing at the symbol, he shakes his head. "You don't hear much news," he says.

He takes one of two glasses, filled with tea, and hands it to me. "Not much," I admit.

"I've been threatened with that," says Odo rather gruffly, "but he wouldn't dare." He sits, and I take the other chair. It is very comfortable. It feels a little odd to be sitting so far off the ground. "I might even tell you about it," he adds, his face grim. He turns away and ignores me.

I am caught in this dilemma, and Odo is the only one that can help. Even if I wanted to I can't cure the monsters. Weyoun won't accept failure and the others won't trust me even if he does. There are facts I need to know about the Dominion itself, and how it is functioning, to find a safe way out of my problem. Somehow, I must find an answer. Odo could help, but he won't even look at me.

Suddenly, I'm very tired. "Where do I sleep?" I ask.

He still won't look at me. "You may take the top," he says.

Keeping out of his way, I climb up the side and lay down on the bunk. It feels strange, too soft, too insecure. I roll against the wall and close my eyes.

If I do find a way, will Weyoun make me live like this, with clean clothes, my choice of food, and the hatred of everyone I know? I'd rather take the work and filth and bugs. I would rather spend my life kasari and be ignored, than have to wonder each night if I'll wake to a knife in my back, suddenly paralyzed while I'm gagged and ripped apart to die in agonizing pain in a pool of my own blood.

That is usually how known collaborators die. I think of Miles and all the blood and wonder if I am not looking at my own future as I lay and listen as Odo picks out a book and sits to read, wishing I was home.

End, Part 3, Chapter 18 of Surrender


	19. Surrender Part 3 Chapter 19

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 3 – Slavery

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

Books which might exist some day:

No Sanctuary - A Personal Memoir by Dannielle Watson

The following book is described/quoted in this story:

"The Man Who Collected the Shadow", by Bill Pronzini,

from Dark Sins, Dark Dreams-Crime in Science Fiction,

edited by Barry N. Malzberg and Bill Pronzini

Chapter 19

It is "night". The lights are shadowy and dim.

For seven years I accepted the artificial simulation that eventually fools the senses. At first on Bajor the day was too bright and the pitch dark of night intimidating. But I'm used to it now. It's hard to sleep without the blackness of real darkness.

If I can sleep at all . . . I picture them returning after their shift, searching the faces and not finding my own. I can hear someone explain that the Jem'Hadar took me. I can see the devastation in Molly's eyes as a little more of her childhood is torn away, Tessie's confusion as another parent is gone.

I'm still worried about Yoshi. There is little I could do if his cold turns bad. Even if they occasionally innoculate us against the latest epidemic, children are still considered disposable. But if-no, when-this is over I don't want to find him gone.

I try to see Ezri, but she's hard to define. Lately, she has almost vanished. Her hair is almost to her shoulders now, hanging in lanky, dirty hunks. She pulls it back with a tie to keep it out of her eyes, like many of the women, but it isn't long enough to stay there and she's forever pushing it out of the way now. But then, I'm used to the beard now. I would miss it. I'm almost used to seeing her with her hair longer and can't quite remember how she looked before. She's started to look more and more like Jadzia. I loved Jadzia, and wanted her. But not this way. But I'd take almost any of her facets now just to have her near.

It's too light, and too warm. Our matts are spread out together, and I miss the closeness of the others cuddled near. Molly talks in her sleep, and I keep listening for words that are too far removed to hear.

The bunk is too high. I would be more comfortable with the mattress on the floor. But I'll try that tomorrow night. Odo spent half the evening pacing and I don't want to wake him up.

He's treating me like the others did, assuming that my cooperation comes with loyalty. That's not fair, and he should certainly know it. Kira is being kept from him, but he knows Weyoun will make sure he never forgets she's at risk. He hasn't cooperated, but he isn't fighting the advantages he has, like the soft bed and replicator. But then, I can't imagine being locked up here alone for such a long time. Perhaps the cost is not all that different than the one we pay.

But I still want to go home, to the people that make life mean something. Maybe Odo and I have that in common.

Weyoun will send me back. I can not allow myself to believe anything else. I will not endanger Ezri or the children. I cannot break my promise to Miles.

But the others, my family among them, will not expect me to return. We are the last step before oblivion. They are saying good bye tonight as I desperately search for some way to get out of this trap without betraying my own.

Even if they ignore me, and I'm relegated to the worse jobs we do, I would rather be there than here. Somewhere in the mass of files and tests I have waiting for me is an answer. I just hope it won't come too late for the people who matter.

o0o

Odo has made dinner. I haven't had so much food in a long time, and simply can't eat that much. He's on his third glass of tea, and appears to be sipping it without any enjoyment.

I notice he's gained weight. I wonder if it's occurred to Weyoun that changelings don't get fat either. If it does, Odo will find his replicator disabled, or perhaps they will remove it entirely. He still disapproves of me. He barely tolerates my presence, but it's been a long time since he had someone to talk to. I guess he can't resist, even if he never makes eye contact.

"Weyoun wants me to call back the Jem'Hadar, keep them under control. They don't know I'm a solid. He's sure they'll never discover it on their own." He looks personally amused as he orders another plate of desert.

Odo is playing a dangerous game. But I guess it's keeping him sane. Still, there has to be a reason why Weyoun is so worried about the Jem'Hadar that he'd need a changeling to keep them under control. I'm surprised that I had almost the same idea. I wonder if it would work anyway. "You've been isolated?" I ask.

He doesn't look at me. "Almost completely." He puts down his tea, stares at the plate in front of him. "I asked to be with Kira, whatever the circumstances. But he wouldn't release me after she died."

I'm confused. "She?"

"The other changeling, the female who tried to lure me so many times. The male was sent when the station was retaken, because she was so ill." He picks up his tea again, and takes a sip. "My people-those who were my people-are individuals outside of the link. He was rather upset about the Breen. After that, he had no interest in luring me back. So I was denied Kira's company as punishment."

I watch him as he stands, taking away the tray and all the plates. He looks more depressed than before. When he returns, he sits heavily in the chair. He's got something around his wrist, a Bajoran bracelet she must have given him. He takes it off and holds it in his hand, staring at it. "Then you know how I feel," I say.

He does not take his eyes off the bracelet. "I have no idea what a *caltie* feels like," he snaps back.

He ignores me. I don't want to play his game. I don't care what Weyoun had done to him. I will not put up with being insulted by that name. But I need to know what happened to the female changeling. I keep my voice even. "The changeling, was she alive when he was cured?" I ask.

"Yes, just barely. She didn't survive your cure." Odo looks over the room. "I was moved here shortly after I saw you."

I look around the room. No matter how comfortable it is, I can understand his mood if he's been locked inside here all that time. But the word still hurt. "Do you ever get out of here?" I ask.

"Only recently, and only to see Weyoun," he grumbles. Odo stares at the door. "I've already made my choice and he knows what it is. He can't quite forget what I was or I would have been moved to one of the work camps months ago." I have a feeling he would much rather that than be locked in this comfortable tomb.

He'd never call in the Jem'Hadar for Weyoun. But I wonder if Odo would do it for Kira and the rest trapped directly in their path should Weyoun's little plot fail.

"He wants me to treat the Founder," I say.

"And will you?" challenges Odo, daring me to refuse, staring at me.

"I have a wife and children. Miles and Keiko are dead and we're raising Molly and Yoshi and a little girl named Tessie. I made a promise to Miles, and to Tessie's grandmother, to take care of them." I am tired of his attitude, and stare back.

Odo can say anything he wants. Weyoun can't replace him with another ex-changeling. But if he has to there are others who could study the disease. I'm still very careful what I say.

Odo slumps down in his chair, gazing at the wall. "Do you know how many of your people they killed, just outright executed for being humans?"

I know. I've heard stories from the new people. I hate being here, being put in this trap. I don't want to swallow the hatred I feel for Weyoun and his empire. I'd love to tell them no and mean it.

But I promised Miles. I can't cure the monsters anyway. Why let people I care about be hurt without trying to find a safer way out? "Yes," I say steadily. "It is my intention that my family not be among them."

Odo studies my expression for a moment before scoffing at me. "Do as you want, Doctor. I will do as I must."

Odo moves away from me, sitting down on his bed. He ignores me the rest of the night.

I retreat to the corner of the room where I've moved my bed. I keep looking at his books, wishing I could take one to read. But they are his. I assume he is the same about his being touched as I am about mine. He knows that Weyoun won't hurt Kira. The Vorta won't risk losing his only chance of Odo's cooperating. But he wouldn't hesitate to deport Ezri or I. We share the way we feel about our books. We're both being used. But I can be replaced and must never forget it.

But Odo gets bored and likes to talk. No matter how much he detests being locked up with a caltie he can't ignore the company. It doesn't matter if he talks to me or the walls. It shouldn't be hard to encourage him. I'm a very good listener.

o0o

If only Sloan were here . . . If I had help I could be done sooner and go back . . . home? How can a prison be home where we are treated like animals? But this isn't really different. The doors lock behind us just the same.

Sloan will never be sent here. He's too unstable, too undependable. I'm not sure he'd be able to help anymore. I don't want to have to deal with a stranger.

But maybe Sloan could tell me if I'm on the right track. Even if I wanted to I can't cure them. I've verified that already. I don't know if Weyoun will like it, but I do know a way to help them. Perhaps it will fit nicely into his plans. I will not admit to myself that it could help Weyoun as well. But I feel like Lemas as he admits the whole scheme to save Fielding, knowing it is the only way to save Liz as well. Weyoun is practical. He should agree. It will make his position more secure, but save my family.

Nothing will keep Weyoun in power for long. He isn't made for that. He'll make too many mistakes and it will all come crashing down soon enough.

And Odo's accusation is still wrong. If Weyoun had the nerve to deport Kira, I wonder if Odo would be so certain of himself. His people will still die, just a little slower. I will not lie to Weyoun or make promises I can't keep. I have done what I can, and he will have to be satisfied.

I am allowing this to be a refuge of sorts. It has been several weeks. Odo had grudgingly let me read his books. Almost all of them are detective novels. He seems to be particularly fond of an old woman named Miss Marple, with half a shelf of her tales. I find them very enjoyable, a gentle reminder of the home that is gone, or perhaps the one that only existed in our minds of an England that ended long before.

He still doesn't look at me, our meals a very odd mixture of suspicion and familiarity as he orders the dishes and we eat together. We even share a conversation, but never look at one another. When this is done, when I go home, I'll miss the food. But I think I'll enjoy my meals more.

There could not have been any real research into this condition or they would have discovered this treatment themselves. I'm even more certain than before that Weyoun plans to keep the Founders demise a secret, and hate that I have been forced to help him. I think of Lemas and Liz, standing by the Wall, and wonder if my fate will be the same. Weyoun may not want any witnesses. Carl bought his release home by paying a steep price. The caltie who owns him probably still has plans for him-or Cheryl-down the road.

I hate to admit that Carl was right. I'd tried so hard to pretend that he wasn't. Weyoun will send me home just so he can reel me back when he's ready.

He doesn't own my mind, never will. But he owns my life, has the power to control it whenever he chooses. Is that any different than it was for Carl?

It's easier during the day, when I can distract myself with tests and formulas. It is so hard to push away the worry about Yoshi. I wish I could get some assurance he was all right, that Molly and Tessie aren't sick too. I force myself to think about the work rather than things I can do nothing about. At night, after food and conversation, I try to read. But I can't concentrate. I miss Ezri, and my children. They are my children now. I will save them both for Miles and Ellie and for the love I have for them.

My wandering mind is pulled back to the lab. The test looks right. I've run it five times. At least they'll live a little longer, and have each other in the end.

I suppose that means something to changelings.

I've asked to see Weyoun. Odo has been very poor company, but he is willing to listen when I ramble, and had a very good idea last night.

I will give this information to Weyoun. But there will be a price. Maybe if we stand together we aren't taking too much of a chance.

After he knows, we may well never see our families again.

o0o

I am brought into work again, and spend my time looking into things about which I already know the answers. But it's all encoded in careful terms. The only people who could make sense of it are their own researchers and if they were trusted I wouldn't even be here.

I'll have to be the one to give Weyoun the bad news.

Sloan and his people were very complete, and I can explain it all in terms that can't backfire on us. Of course, that won't stop them from blaming us anyway.

I keep wondering, where did this idea to set conditions come from? I've been listening to Odo ramble for weeks, and lecture me about loyalty in his own annoying way, and maybe that made a difference.

Or maybe I'm just tired of playing the game their way. The last time I saw Weyoun he was scared. I'm only hoping that the arrogance that has come with being irreplaceable has not blinded him to practicality.

Odo told me about Damar and the cloning facility he destroyed, the way Weyoun can no longer be recreated.

It's a big risk. I lay in bed at night and remember the internment camp and how much danger there was of discovery when Tain, and later Garak, were working. We'd have been shot on the spot. You take risks when there is nothing left to lose, or when you choose to gamble for a greater good.

Before we lose everything, all the opportunities, I want to take some kind of stand. It will probably kill me, but every time I see the image burned into my hand I remind myself that Ezri would be proud of me.

The morning has wound down, and I'm repeating old tests again, looking for something I might have missed. I see a hint of it in an early scan, something I'll never know the meaning of now, when the sound of the door opening shuts everything else out.

Weyoun is here.

"I was told you wanted to see me," he says.

What gall we have to think we can bargain with him? What nerve we have to think he'll listen? He's more worried than before. I haven't been allowed to see the Founder, but guess he's either very sick or dead. I really do hope he's not dead yet.

"I have results to report," I say as icily as I can. It's hard. I still remember his order to have Miles hacked apart. I still look forward to seeing him die the same way.

"Report them immediately," he replies, impatient and rushed. "I have a great deal to do, Doctor." He is different, not just arrogant but confident of his authority.

The Founder is too sick to get in the way of any decisions he makes. I wonder if Weyoun is planning the Breen war all by himself, or if there are other Vorta who are keeping the secret. But he's clearly taken on an authority that was always a little tentative when the Founders could destroy him as quickly as he can us.

"Under certain conditions," I say. I am calm. Either he agrees or doesn't. He kills me or lets me live. He deports me or sends me home. It doesn't matter. I'm taking a little of the control back.

He's annoyed, and surprised. He stares at me for a few moments. I can see he is getting angry. "You do not state conditions." No "doctor" this time.

"It isn't complicated. I just want to see my family and Odo to see Kira."

Weyoun actually looks relieved. The Founder must be so sick he's afraid he'll die soon.

He needs me. He has to find out what's in this file with a minimum of eyes looking at it.

After a very long pause, he answers. "That is reasonable. I'll have them brought to you tomorrow. You will also divulge your results in the afternoon." He snaps out the words.

How do I tell them nothing I do will keep them from dying? How will it feel to help them hide the secret?

"As long as my family is all right," I say.

"You will be brought here in the afternoon. Be prepared to reveal your findings or it may be the last time you ever see them."

I have no doubt he means it. He's got his own taste of power. Somewhere inside, he likes it. He'll do all he can to preserve it. I don't know quite yet know if that is good or bad. I remember the dead Jem'Hadar that brought me here, the ones who knew about the Founder.

Weyoun turns and leaves, this time without any further word. A little while later I'm taken back to my quarters.

Odo notices my expression. "What happened?" he asks.

"Weyoun is going to let us see our families," I say.

Odo looks me over, debating. "Not by his own choice, I imagine."

"Not exactly," I say.

Odo smiles a little. "I would like to see Kira again some day."

"I said *our* families," I add.

He is relieved and genuinely moved. "Thank you," he says, very hesitantly.

We don't say much the rest of the night, each taking a book to read. I can't follow the one I pick, the carefully placed clues hard to remember even though it is one I've read twice before. All I can think of is tomorrow and what will either be a beginning or an end.

o0o

I am left alone this morning. Impatient, worried, and nervous of what comes later in the day, I didn't sleep much. I'm dozing when the door bursts open.

I know who it is before I look. "Daddy," she screams as she bursts into tears and fiercely takes hold of me. I look up as Ezri and Yoshi and Tessie are ushered inside, Kira following behind.

They are wearing clean clothes and got a shower. They may be suspect as well, if Weyoun decides to sent them home. Yoshi is pulling to be put down, and runs on his short legs to my side. Tessie is already holding me, and I'm astonished by how much she's grown.

Her hair is clean and sparkling, all the children are clean. I realize that it's the first time I've ever seen she and Yoshi so cleaned up. They are all beautiful children.

I can not describe the absolute joy there is in knowing they are well.

I look up at Ezri, standing back a little, looking stunned. I don't know her. Ezri is there, but just bits of her. Jadzia and Curzon glare at me too, but she has made herself into a new person when I was gone. "We thought you were dead," she says.

"I wasn't allowed any contact," I say. I'm overjoyed that she's found some kind of stability. I'm terrified that I'll be never be a part of this new woman's life.

She's studying me. She'd debating weather to believe me and I still see hesitation in her eyes. "What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Pointless research. Nothing that matters." I hold out my hand. I try to reach her with my eyes but see nothing but suspicion. "I didn't want to come. This was Weyoun's idea. There was no point in refusing when it didn't really matter." She doesn't move, staring at me. I have the terrible feeling she isn't buying my explanation. "Weyoun is playing games. He found some of my old genetics research, something I hadn't finished. He has plenty of people who could have done it, but he want to make sure I know he still remembers me. He likes making me do what he wants." She is still watching, considering. "I'd rather have you alive than make Weyoun find someone else to finish my old project."

It occurs to me that she has no reason to trust me. The story even sounds lame to me. But if she suspects the real nature of my work they will probably die.

She's being cautious, almost cold. I decide to be the same way. I can't get the image of Carl out of my head, making a point of keeping Cheryl at bay until he didn't have to try. I don't want that for my family but Ezri isn't acting like I'd expected. I don't quite know who she is anymore. She moves towards me, but stops. "How sure were you that it was *pointless* when you agreed to do it?" she says, and I'm reminded of Sloan pretending to be internal affairs. He'd used the same tone of voice.

"Ezri," I say, not sure what to reply. This is supposed to be joyful, not like this.

"Are you helping them?" she asks, demanding a straight answer.

If Weyoun is hiding the secret from the Jem'Hadar and everyone else subject to his orders, then will my findings simply make him more powerful? There is just enough guilt I'm afraid she'll see through any explanation about it.

How long have I been here? How hard has it been for them, in the cold and snow and mud while I've had this room with a stock of books and bed. And the replicator. I can see her looking at it.

I see myself through her eyes, clean and well fed and clearly not hungry, and think I might have the same doubts she obviously harbors. I might well be mistaken for one of the low level calties at camp except for the beard, which is still untrimmed and thick. She will never forgive me if she believes I have collaborated with them, even to save her and the children. "No," I say.

She is still watching. Something's happened at home, something I don't know about to make her this bitter. "Why are you here then?" she repeats.

Quietly, I drop my guard. My tone is grim, tired. "To play Weyoun's little games, to let him feel important." I pause, waiting until she's looking at me. "To let him demonstrate what we are to him," I add, holding up my hand with the mark of a sarki emblazoned upon it, "so you and these children would stay alive." She is staring, considering, trying to decide what to believe. Feeling uncomfortably like Carl in some sort of confrontation with his wife, I look her in the eyes, as cold about it as she is. "How many parents can they lose before they won't let anybody near?"

I have hit a nerve. "How meaningless?" she demands, but with less force.

"Completely," I say, as calmly as I spoke to Weyoun. It will be easier to tell him the truth than it is tell her a lie. "He could have had anyone do it. He demanded I do it so he could prove how he owns us. Even he knows the research is pointless. He wouldn't have dangled you as a reminder if it really mattered, or agreed to this condition I pulled on him. You don't make deals with Weyoun unless they serve his purposes too."

She comes forward, stands still. "I hope that's true," she says.

"I would not hurt my people, and you know it," I say. My look dares her to disagree.

She looks me over, watching the children as they cling to me.

"No, you wouldn't," she says. She walks forward, reaching out her hand to touch me. Her touch is tentative, uncertain. She still does not trust me. But at least she knows who I am. I do not recognize her anymore. There is no uncertainty, no hesitation. She has not changed into anyone else. Most of all she reminds me of Kira when I first met her, long ago in a different lifetime than this one.

Something is wrong. Something happened while I was away that hurt her terribly. "What happened?" I ask.

"Raina's dead," she says, her voice suddenly dull. "It was another accident. I'm worried about Kara. I had to leave her behind."

Molly is crying harder now.

"Just an accident?" I ask.

"There are a lot of them." She looks at me. "Why are we here?"

"I wanted to see you. I wouldn't tell Weyoun about the research if I didn't get to see you first."

I notice Kira is staring at me. She doesn't believe my explanation. She walks forward, still studying me. "I did what I had to do," I say, looking her in the eyes, daring her to argue, and hoping she remembers.

She watches me, deciding. Ezri is still uncertain, waiting. Kira finally makes up her mind. "Sounds reasonable to me," she says, mostly to Ezri.

The level of tension in the room visibly relaxes.

Odo can't take his eyes off Kira. He doesn't give me away, as I had worried he might. A deal is a deal. Having her in the room, so near, is worth a little compromise.

Odo takes her hand and they sit together. "What about me?" Kira asks.

"I owed it to Odo. He gave me the idea."

Ezri looks at me, cautiously. "And after this?" she asks.

"I don't know. That depends on Weyoun. But I got to see you at least."

I know I should ask how bad things have been, but not now. I'm stunned by Raina's death. I don't want to make deals with murders. But for everyone's sake, the secret must be kept. Now, if the Jem'Hadar were to discover their gods are dying we would all die. Weyoun is right to be worried. He will be the first victim if they discover he has lied. It would be most satisfying to see them rip him apart, but not if we are the next victims. Eventually their hold on this quadrant will loosen, and then the time will come. How many of us are dead already? Why kill off the rest when time and his own arrogance will take care of the rest. He'll keep the Jem'Hadar under control in the meantime. Anything else would be suicide, and I have four children to raise now.

Holding Molly and Yoshi, with my wife so near, I know I'm not ready for that kind of sacrifice quite yet.

Odo and Kira say nothing. But she leans forward and he takes her in his arms. He just holds her, and we leave them be.

When the time comes I believe Odo would agree to play Founder a last time. But never for Weyoun.

With them so near and afternoon approaching, I am terrified that this is the last time I will ever see my own family. I can't allow myself to think of anything beyond this moment, with the children cuddled close and Ezri allowing me to hold her. I banish the afternoon and the conversation which will buy us this time.

Ezri and the children sit around my bed, and she relaxes a little. She even lets me kiss her, and has not pulled away as I put my arm around her. She's still not sure. But she's willing to take Kira's lead and give me a chance. I still don't know who she is, but she is stronger than since we were shoved into the cargo hold the day of our capture.

She had three, now four children relying on her. She made her own promise to Miles. When they took me away, she could not be a shattered woman and keep that promise. Perhaps all this was for the best, even if she is not my Ezri anymore and will never be again. We do what we have to. But we don't break promises to the dead.

Cuddled closely together, we talk quietly of little things.

"It's been snowing a lot," she says. "It doesn't melt off anymore. There's big piles of it all around the buildings. Actually, it helps keep them warmer."

"Good," I reply, "The children, how are they doing?"

"Better," she says. She looks away when she says, "Everybody is used to the cold anyway."

But not me. I've been here in this comfortable place, warm and well fed, while they've been sitting in the middle of winter. "I guess I'll get used to it too."

She strokes Molly, who is still crying, but softer now. "Yes," she says hesitantly, looking at the door. But she's scared. She doesn't know any of the details, but is aware this could be the end.

Molly is half-asleep, but Yoshi has crawled onto my lap. He's talking in excited words, and here and there I can pick up a meaning. "Da da," he repeats often, falling back into rushed together sounds that definitely mean something to him.

"Molly usually translates," says Ezri, but having stopped her tears she's fallen asleep in Ezri's lap. Yoshi is firmly entrenched in mine, holding on fast with his little hands. He's babbling less, now, relaxed, as he curls into a comfortable position and almost instantly falls asleep.

Tessie climbs up next to him, sleepy herself. She is so much taller and can't keep her fingers out of my beard. I let her play with it. She pulls some hairs and Ezri quietly reprimands her. "No," she insists, "Don't hurt Daddy."

Ezri takes a deep breath, as Tessie keeps tangling her fingers in my dark beard, her pale wisps of hair sticking out of her head at the back. "Daddy went away," she says, hurt and anger coloring her tone.

I stroke her gently. "Daddy still loves you. Daddy's here now."

Tessie starts crying, suddenly, her head buried in my shoulder. I put my arm around her and just hold her until she stops, her hand sliding from my beard as she falls asleep.

I am the only father she's ever know.

I stroke the children. I pull Ezri closer. I can tell she is worried. Whatever she thinks, she does want to go home.

"I kept the books close," she says quietly. "It reminded me of you."

"Have you done any readings?" I ask.

"A few. Mostly for the children. It's dark pretty early." She pauses, carefully looking at me. "I read that one you keep to yourself, the one about the Dannie. When it's light enough, we should read it. I found it very moving."

Danni's book. You read the secret diaries when you think they're dead. Or the books that were very private. When I come back all clean and well-fed, what will they think? Will I still be dead to the rest of them? I couldn't stand to live through that again.

"I must have seen her," I say with a little hesitation. She knows about the trip through time. A part of her lived it too. But we've never discussed it. I don't want to make anyone else curious about it.

"I didn't expect to ever see you again," she says, looking at me, still a little uncertain.

"I know. I wasn't so sure of it myself."

She still isn't sure. I doubt she really believes my story but I have to believe she'll understand I can't tell her the truth. I have to believe she'll take me back. But she allows me to pull her close and kiss her, and the kiss in return is real.

I still don't know her, but I look forward to getting acquainted. She is still my wife. Yoshi stirs a little in my lap, and we stroke his hair gently to help him back to sleep. Relaxed, Tessie slides off onto the bed. Ezri is still the only mother these children have and I their only father. I treasure all of them as the afternoon and its moment of truth comes nearer.

Abruptly, our moment vanishes as the door opens. A guard gruffly orders, "You will come," and I slowly untangle myself from the others. We slide Yoshi carefully onto the bed, and I give each of them a kiss. I don't know if Ezri believes my story, but she knows what is at stake this afternoon. I remind myself that she kept one secret, and wonder if she's changed too much to keep quiet about another. As I pass through the door I look back at them, hoping that this is not the last time I'll ever see my family.

o0o

Weyoun is waiting when I arrive. He sits at one of the tables, and I stand nearby.

"You have seen your family. You will abide by the arraignment." His violet eyes are hard and cold, and small doubts are insisting on being heard. He is clearly the decision maker now, and his arrogance shows. If I help him hide the truth, no matter why, I am betraying my own in some small way.

"I assume you've monitored us. I didn't give away any secrets," I say, forcing myself to be as cold as he is.

"That was wise. I have done as I promised. Now it is your turn. What are your findings?" He is very tense, clearly worried.

I remain calm. I am telling the truth. It's easier that way. I stand before him, looking him *almost* in the eyes. "I can't cure them," I say, getting it over.

I'm relieved I didn't try to lie. I watch him as he considers my words. He is a little stunned. I suppose he was hoping I'd have a miracle. After a pause, he asks, "Is that all of your findings?"

"Not everything," I say, moving around, taking the authority that my knowledge gives me. I remind myself that presentation is everything. "There is a condition present that bears no similarity to the previous disease. There appears to be an ongoing breakdown in their ability to absorb energy. In a solid it would be analogous with not being able to absorb any of the nutrients from food."

Weyoun pauses, his concern evident. "Are you saying that the Founders are starving to death?"

"Essentially," I say. I wait while Weyoun considers my diagnosis. I see grief in his eyes, and determination. We believed that the Dominion would not survive the death of the Founders. Perhaps we were wrong.

He looks up, meeting my eyes. "You call this a 'condition'. It is not a disease?"

I am the doctor. Weyoun is the friend or family of the patient, someone who cares, but cannot prevent their death. I've done this before. Even now, it hurts a little. "The effect is much the same. But there is no pathogen present in a 'condition'." I sit opposite him, putting us at equal footing. "This has existed for a long time. It was simply too insignificant for me to have ever found it in Odo. Perhaps the disease exacerbated it, but it would have come to this eventually."

Sloan had planned it out rather well. The cure for the first disease contained a small, irreversible genetic patch. The dna was already there. The patch simply activated it. It is impossible to tell how long the deterioration has gone on. I almost wonder if this was plan B or what was intended from the start.

Weyoun is shaken, but recovers. "You cannot treat the condition?"

"Not in the time they have left. It would take several years of research to study the biochemistry that causes it. They'll be long gone by then."

I use my most clinical tone. It's easier when it's the truth. Another concentrated effort like the one that failed with Sloan's first disease might work. But then, everyone would know.

"I see," he says, visibly nervous. He has a problem. He can't push this supposed research or it will give it away. And it could still fail and leave the Founders dead, followed shortly by the Vorta.

"There is one thing that can be done, though I wouldn't call it a treatment." I am being very professional now. "It appears that when they link, they can draw on the collective energy of the whole link to sustain them. Linked, they should live longer."

He is thoughtful. "Enough to save them?"

"Probably not," I answer.

Weyoun is silent. "The Founder is so ill he can not properly transform anymore. Are you suggesting that sending him home would help?"

I'm fascinated by his manner. There is so much grief there. He has lost the foundation of his existence. In an odd way, I understand.

It is a good revenge, just as the deaths of the Martians gave the Earth another chance. But like the devastated world they left behind with their heat ray and black smoke, revenge won't restore our own world. Revenge isn't as satisfying as I'd like it to be.

I keep my look grim. "It could prolong his life considerably." I'm extremely relieved that Weyoun came up with the idea on his own.

"Will remaining here and continuing your research make any difference in the end?" he asks slowly.

I know I could lie. It would buy me time to experiment with some sort of treatment, knowing it would be too late in the end. And then, what? Weyoun will own me, force me into other duties that mark me as a traitor. I would have a bed and my choice of books and the replicator. But I don't want that. "No, nothing short of high priority research will make that kind of difference."

We both know that is not going to happen.

"I wish you to examine him first," says Weyoun, worry and uncertainty filling his voice.

I follow him into the room. The Founder is unconscious. I don't ask but guess he's been like this for some time. I scan him quickly, and study the results. He's failing rapidly. "I'd get him there very quickly," I tell Weyoun.

"That can be arraigned," he says.

"What about my family?" I ask.

"You will be returned to your camp."

I guess my use is ended. He knows they still have Ezri and now four children's lives to hold hostage. I'm actually rather relieved to be done.

I will miss the replicator. If they stay tonight, we'll have to have a feast.

He calls the guards and I'm heading out the door when he asks a question.

"What do you want in exchange for you help?" he asks.

I'm astonished. I did not expect a reward, except my life. I think hard. Freedom. Food. A little privacy. Food. Freedom. But he won't do this.

Then I remember the fruit. I've tasted it a few times, tiny traces of sweetness. "There is a fruit some of the groups get. Round, orangish, . . ."

"Kenexa fruit," he says. It's the first time I've ever heard a name. "You want your group to get it as well."

"The rations get very tiresome."

He nods. "The Breen are near surrender. When the war ends we shall add the fruit on a daily basis."

I am stunned that he would think of that. I wonder if he might call on me again. "May the war end soon, then," I say.

I'm ushered out of the lab. I will never see it again. I wish I could be sorry. But I'd rather scrub tubs than do this again.

Ezri is waiting, worried. "I think we're going home," I tell her.

She nods. The children are curled up together on the bed, sound asleep. I don't know if she believes my story, but I wouldn't be going back to our group if I had really betrayed my people. Calties have their own quarters, good clothes, and probably replicators. They will pay for them dearly when Weyoun's facade finally falls away. I am already stained by this act. I will not make it worse.

We have a feast, waking the children long enough to eat. I take out my favorite of Odo's books, a short story collection, and read our visitors my favorite story. "The Man who Collected the Shadow" was a loner, an oddball who never fit in. His one passion in life was the Shadow, secret fighter of crime, righter of wrongs. One day, in a rundown used bookstore, he finds the last two pieces that make his collection complete.

I smile at his indescribable joy. I remember the day I discovered the secret of Sloan's second weapon. It was so simple, so effective. I wouldn't call it joy, but I will never forget the satisfaction of having solved the puzzle.

He is complete now. The power of the Shadow is his. He can right the wrongs himself now. He has become the Shadow.

I have been the Shadow. I have taken revenge on murders, in the name of the one's they've killed. I want to go home and wait until it ends now, hoping I will not be excluded from them too long. I wish him luck in his avocation.

Odo says, "If you want to take the book when you leave, it's yours." His tired, very human eyes meet mine.

He does not know how lucky he is that he was changed. I wish there was a way of telling him.

Ezri yawns. It has been a very long day for her. We make room for the children on a make-shift bed made of chair cushions, and they are moved without waking. She looks drawn and pale, and unexpectedly holds me close. We're almost asleep when she whispers, "I didn't think you'd come back. They don't make deals." Her face is resigned. I don't recognize her anymore. "But I missed you. They missed you more," she says, looking at the children. "We'll have to get to know one another again." She sighs. "I had to keep strong for the children. I found myself."

There is a curious look in her eyes, not Ezri or Jadzia, but a little of both, and someone else I've never met. "I know," I say. Looking her in the eye, I add, "This will end. It can't last like this."

She just holds me. She isn't sure what I did, doesn't trust me entirely, but has made her choice. It will be hard enough for me when I have to face the others. I don't want to think of how long it might take before we could be called free. But with each other we'll find a way to manage. She has chosen not to be alone, not to leave the children we now claim as our own without a father.

Looking in her eyes, practical and distant, familiar and relieved, I know what I will face-the cost I will pay for this act of betrayal. Once Weyoun said I would know the worst. Now, relegated to almost the lowest caste of slave, I am to be isolated even from my own.

The first time he gave his orders I tricked him, and even if I had to live with the reputation it gave me I knew that the game had to be played that way, that no matter how difficult revenge would not have been without it. The second time, I refused and killed my best friend and regained what the game had cost. But this time there were no lies, no deceptions. I told Weyoun the truth, bargained with the meager scraps that I could find. I did it to save my family. But in the act of cooperation with the enemy, have I truly passed the line to collaborator?

The Founders will still die. But this time Ezri and the children will not. I stare at the door, wondering how hard it will be to look at the others, knowing that when Carl reminds me that he owns me now, I don't know if I can deny it anymore.

o0o

Weyoun is done with me. We will be going home tomorrow, but we have the rest of the day. I realize how much I will miss the special things, the replicator and clean clothes, the time to read, but I still want to go back. To stay here would cost more than I am prepared to pay.

But for now, we have treats. I make an enormous ice-cream Sunday for the children, topped with lots of chocolate. Molly remembers the taste and eats hers quietly, reflectively. She plays with her friend, but she isn't a child anymore. I notice Kira is watching her. I wonder if she sees a little of herself.

But Yoshi is delighted, covered in melted ice-cream and syrup and so full of energy he can't sit still. Tessie, with little more than residual memory of such things, still manages to cover herself in sticky chocolate, and eats so much she has a stomach ache. Odo looks annoyed, but sneaks in a little smile, the first I've seen since I was brought here.

If only we could end this now, somehow, before Yoshi's childhood vanishes as his sister's already has, as Tessie's has already been marred. But I made sure that Weyoun can keep his secret for a little while. Yoshi will have to take whatever childhood he can get. I look at Ezri, wondering if she can see the guilt.

For if I didn't he wouldn't have any childhood at all. Ezri and I would be gone and he'd have lost more parents. I could not do that to him. And Tessie would once again be the child to be parceled out to whoever was willing to take her, ripped from family again by Weyoun this time. Odo and Kira have been very quiet, giving us privacy. Kira will be staying behind.

Finally, after dinner, the children retire to their bed and fall asleep. Ezri is sleepy and lies down herself. I catch Kira watching the children. "I must be hard," I say.

She looks across the room at something far away. "Don't leave them, whatever you do. Don't take that from them."

I'd heard about Kira's mother and Dukat. I can understand why she did it. She was taking care of her family in the only way she could. I wonder what I would have done if the only option that would keep them safe was my staying here, working for Weyoun. They would assume I was dead. I think I would leave them with that lie rather than forcing them to live with the disgrace of a caltie for a father.

Kira is looking at me, staring. She didn't believe my explanation to Ezri. She can see the guilt. But she must know I had reasons I can't say. "They'll shut you out. They might kill you. You do know that," she says.

"I won't belong to Weyoun," I answer.

*Not completely,* I think to myself.

She watches me closely, seeing everything. I let her look. She is staying here, for now at least. Both of us are personal pawns in a game we don't control. Just as I was allowed to go, she was made to stay. I'm sure neither she nor Odo was consulted in the decision.

"Sometimes, we do what we have to." She says it so quietly it's almost a whisper. Our eyes meet in a moment of silent understanding.

She glances at Odo and he joins her. He has several books in his hands. "I thought you'd like these. I can always get more." His expression is neutral, but I understand. He has forgiven me. He has Kira now, until Weyoun takes her away again. I take the books from him, and he nods at me. "I hope we will see each other again under better circumstances."

I nod. "Take care of each other," is all I can think of to say. We retire to our respective families.

Ezri stirs as I crawl into the narrow bed next to her. I realize she wasn't asleep. She's looking at me, no compromise in her eyes. "I've been thinking," she says, her voice very low. "When we get home I'll have to protect you. But I want the truth, the real one."

She means what she says. But Kira is right. Suspected collaborators have died messy deaths before. I did this to stay alive. I don't want to be killed by my own. The rest will look to Ezri. If she accepts me, the rest will eventually come around.

"Not here," I whisper. She nods. She pulls me closer, snuggles close, and I take comfort in her touch. For the first time, I worry that I no longer have a home.

End, Part 3, Chapter 19 of Surrender


	20. Surrender Part 3 Chapter 20

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 3 – Slavery

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this story:

"The Man Who Collected the Shadow", by Bill Pronzini,

from Dark Sins, Dark Dreams-Crime in Science Fiction,

edited by Barry N. Malzberg and Bill Pronzini

Chapter 20

Yoshi is smiling, pointing out the window as the transport lifts off, excited by the strange morning. The pilot has left the window open, and the clouds are thick as we rise into the sky. Yoshi doesn't remember runabouts and spaceships. The grubby life we're allowed is all he knows, and this is a grand adventure to him. His stomach was upset all night from the rich food, and he hardly slept at all.

Tessie is squirming, trying to see it all. Her tummy ache has passed, but she is still full of energy from all the special food and can't sit still. She keeps looking at the clouds and sky, her young eyes round with excitement and a little fear. When they were brought here it was in the cage, and she's doesn't remember much of the world she was born into but vague impressions.

Molly isn't excited. She's old enough to remember the world they stole from us, and knows what we're going back to. She's already too old to be a child in this place. Sitting on her mother's lap she watches the clouds as they slide by the window, lost in her own quiet thoughts.

Ezri is calm, her eyes hard, but I suspect she's hiding the worry. I disappeared a long time ago. They already assumed I was dead. Would the others assume that she and the children would not return as well? Would any of our meager possessions remain-especially the books?

I worry about the books. I know Dorothy will care for them, if she took them. But what if she didn't? What if my promise to her mattered as much as the one to Elaine about Tessie? Will I have to force the issue to take them back if it comes to that? Of course, it's a lot easier to worry about the books than worrying about what they'll all think of me, the local traitor.

Ezri will back me up. I won't find a knife in my back some night. But they'll make sure my life is kept miserable. None of our work is easy. Some of it is utterly drudgery, and that's all I'll be allowed to do for a long time.

The transport jerks suddenly, Yoshi startled, and his excited babbling is interrupted by the whine as we land. He grows quiet again. The transport rolls along the ground now, near the gate. He knows where he is now. The adventure is over.

Tessie looks away as we approach the gate, growing sad. But in an odd way she looks relieved as well. It may be a terrible life, but for her it's home. The strange adventure was fun, but when you're not quite three, home matters more.

Ezri looks down as we approach the gate, the guards looking inside. Something has changed. Neither of them are Jem'Hadar. In fact, one of them is Romulan. He passes us through as I gaze at Ezri, giving him a deadly stare she doesn't let him see.

She said things had changed. I'm beginning to see how much. Now that the Founders are gone is Weyoun disposing of the Jem'Hadar wherever he can? I'm sure the Romulan guard is more concerned with his own comforts than esoteric things like loyalty to the Founders.

We pass through several more gates. When I was removed, the passenger compartment was closed off and I didn't see anything. But none of the people at the gates are Jem'Hadar. Some of them are even human.

If the guards are like us, were like us, what sort of reception will I get? Will Ezri's acceptance of me matter at all? Will they shun her as well-or worse?

I wasn't nearly as nervous about this before.

The transport stops, and we're ushered out into the cold.

Ezri wraps her coat a little tighter, following the guards-more scattered alpha quadrant races-back to our barn. I'm just cold. Shivering, I follow behind her, the children rushing along between us.

The door opens, a scattering of children and a few adults inside. I get a glimpse of their stunned faces as I'm stopped before entering, held back by the rifle-same as the Jem'Hadar had carried-held by a human guard.

Ezri looks back at me with a nod, and I hand her the books Odo gave me. I wait next to the guard, trying hard not to look at him. As the door shuts, I stumble shivering after him to the cooking tent, where I'm shoved ahead to a small alcove.

The director of our section, Sir as we call him, is in a new uniform, wearing one of the little patches the guards have on their coats. He doesn't look up as I wait to see what he wants. At least, aside from the new clothes, I'm used to him.

"I was told you would be back today," he says, shuffling some papers. "We're short on clean up tonight. You'll go out with them. For now, we've got today's shipment to unload." He looks down, as if I'd suddenly vanished.

That means I'm dismissed. The guard wanders out, keeping close to the warmth of the cooking area as long as he can, and I trail behind. Not even a short respite from work for me. Perhaps I'm lucky. Maybe the rest will figure out that had I sold them out I'd be in the kind of uniform the director is wearing instead of prison dress. But it is very clean prison dress, and I look rather well fed.

I may still be sarki, but a little lower in the scale of things than the rest now. The guard hurries as we get past the warmth, and the wind is blowing. He points me toward the crew, already shoveling grain into the machine that breaks it up and I hurry to grab a shovel.

Moving is warmer than being still, and I don't stand out so much.

I watch the guards, noting the distribution of species. A Bolian, a few Romulans, other less known species are among them. There is even a Trill. They leave us alone, but it's too cold to dally anyway. As the melting snow soaks into my boots, I notice they are shifting around. It's satisfying that they are probably colder than we are.

My clothes are spattered with mud and the dust from the machine by the time dinner comes. We eat in the covered area of the building, quickly while the food is hot.

It's too cold to think of the replicator, but I will later.

Immediately, I'm sent away with the clean up crew. I still remember how to do it. It just isn't quite so automatic anymore.

Ezri is in bed by the time I get back, wet and dirty already. All day I've gotten looks, first of surprise, then suspicion. After awhile I was too cold to notice them, but everybody is looking now.

"He let me go," I tell them. I'm really too cold and wet and tired to care what they think right now. I hold up my hand, pulling off my wet gloves, to show my mark.

Ezri pulls me closer, moving the wet things to the side. She helps pull off the soggy boots, and then the rest, drawing me inside next to her bare skin, wrapping herself around me, tucking in the blankets while the children snuggle closer.

I fall asleep immediately, waking later as the winds roar fills the room. Ezri pulls me very close.

"You promised," she says, matter-of-factly.

"I know," I whisper, keeping close to her ear. "He's on his own. The gods are still dying, and he wanted me to cure them again."

"You didn't?" she asks.

"Nothing I could-or would-do to cure them. They'll last a little while longer linked, not that it will make much difference."

She stares at me. "The Jem'Hadar disappeared from here almost a month ago. The bosses and the guards are all calties now, with that *uniform*." She pauses, thinking. "Did he offer you one of the nice new uniforms?"

"No, just to get to come home."

She stares at the ceiling. "Home . . . " she mutters. "We've heard the Jem'Hadar are still in the area, just not here. So the bastards out there have to behave or the Jem'Hadar come back."

"How bad?" I finally ask, thinking of Kara, now curled next to Ezri instead of her mother.

"They take revenge when guards get killed. It's personal now."

I can hear the hatred in her voice, and wonder what I've done. How can I have helped Weyoun save his empire when he's actively turning us against ourselves?

"I just wanted to come home," I say, quietly, worried she doesn't believe me.

"We figured it had been too long. If you hadn't sold out you were dead." I realize she's still getting used to me being alive herself.

"You thought I was dead."

"Isn't that good?" she asks.

She kisses me. I kiss her back, suddenly missing her more than ever. She takes my hand, sliding it up her chest, and I cup her breast, nipple tightening against my palm.

The trees are swaying in the warm breeze. The surf drifts in and out, lazy in the afternoon sun. Ezri and I lay on our sandbar, the sun warming our naked bodies, slowly, quietly merging our two selves into one.

o0o

Morning is an ordeal I can do without. If I wanted any more proof that they'd rather not have me around than the silence that greets Ezri and I inside, the morning wait for assignments is ample evidence.

Sir and his crew wait in the office while we wait outside in the snow. I'm not on a regular crew, so every day I'm assigned to whatever needs to be done. Most of us are gone and at work in a short while.

I'm always last. Usually Jackson is near the end too, along with Luther and a few others. But Jackson still spooks the people he works with, despite the quiet resignation that's started to replace the cold disdain. And Luther doesn't get much done when it's cold, his hands shaking too much.

Me, they just ignore until the end. Even the calties who pick and choose aren't sure about me, don't like me. I make it a point to rub my beard when looking at them, just a reminder that I am not one of them with their smooth faces and carefully trimmed hair. Maybe there is a trace of loyalty to their own left, and it hurts to be reminded. I don't know. I don't care. I just like seeing them squirm.

The one today, dark haired and tall, has assigned everyone but Carl and I. He hasn't even looked at me, as if I was invisible. The wind is blowing and it's very cold. My boots are already wet. But he keeps *looking* at Carl.

"Jackson," he finally says, pausing. Carl looks away, uncomfortable in his gaze. "You have a loader to fix today. Grain loader 5 is out of order."

For a moment Carl looks a little relieved. He didn't work for Miles for seven years without learning how to patch things back together. It's a compliment to be assigned a repair job, especially for a rat. But Carl will have company today. He points at me with a finger but doesn't look at me. "That's your assistant."

Jackson looks very disappointed. He likes working alone. In any event, I don't know how to fix loaders. And grain loader 5 is outside.

He moves off, away from the office. Reluctantly, I follow him.

But Carl isn't the same when he starts on his job. He was one of Miles best, and he's looking at the loader now, absorbed in taking apart the outer casing of the unit. He hasn't even looked up at me. I just stand back shuffling my feet around in the slush.

It is going to be a very long day.

Abruptly, he wants the tool case. No, he *orders* me to bring it, his tone unmistakable. For a moment I hesitate, holding back, waiting for him to at least look up.

Instead he snaps impatiently, "Hurry it up. I need it now."

Slowly, I pick it up, move forward, curious what caused the loader to abruptly quit. It was working fine the night before and it hadn't snowed at all over the evening. There wasn't a good reason for it to quit. But I'm sure there is a reason. I wonder if Carl will hold back the information . . . lie about the damage or if he'll tell them everything.

I guess we'll see who owns Carl today.

I give him the tool kit and he pushes it back towards me. "The splitter, third over on the top row." He doesn't look up, taking the tool as I hand it to him. He hardly moves as he is bent over the open casing, pulling parts aside, utterly absorbed in the work.

I can see fascination, escape in his eyes. He used to do this on the station, trouble shoot things for Miles, and for a moment he goes back there, even if he's standing in the snow with a brand on his shoulder.

I can understand. I don't get to be a doctor often, but when I do it matters. Even now, ignored completely, I wouldn't mind them asking.

They'd have to ask, see me, let me touch them.

He's bent over the machine now, completely absorbed in his work. Aside from occasional orders for tools, he doesn't pay any attention to me.

Carl hasn't said a word to me since I returned. But he watches, once in a while giving me an amused look. I wonder if he knows how much I thought of him in those months, especially his warning about Ezri.

I still wonder, if he hadn't suggested her fate, if I might have done things differently. But I doubt it. He only reinforced the knowledge that resistance-of any kind-comes with a very heavy price. I just wasn't ready to pay it, not this time.

But someone was. Carl is wearing a curious look as he pulls the cord out of the machine. It's torn, but not entirely. At the start is a visibly straight cut the machine could not have made.

For a moment, Carl hesitates. I can understand, thought I don't want to. He can't hide it. But if they are allowing him to repair it, they might believe his explanation. Or, maybe not. Carl can't afford to not be believed.

"Well, I can't do anything more," he says. He doesn't look at me, but I can hear the tension in his voice. He starts back towards the office, the cord in his hand, head down, ignoring me as he had before.

I'm very curious what Carl is going to say. Lives could depend on it.

The cord progressively droops towards the muck, eventually trailing in it. Appearing to notice, Carl pulls it up, off the ground.

Sir is out, and we are required to wait, again standing outside in the cold until he returns. I keep shuffling my feet around trying to keep warm. Carl is preoccupied, hardly moving at all. He looks up when Sir approaches, and motions us into his office.

I stand towards the back, relieved to be ignored for once. This is Carl's moment of truth and I won't intrude.

"Did you determine the cause of the problem?" asks Sir, detached, as if he was busy with other things and barely listening.

Carl holds up the cord, the material around the break unrolling itself into a ball. "The pulley broke. I'll need another one from supply and it will be a lot of work to replace it. I can't get it done by afternoon."

Carl holds all the authority he can in his voice. I hate to admit how much I understand, how I hear myself talking to Weyoun.

Sir drops the game. It occurs to me it would be an excellent way to commit sabotage. "How soon, then?" He almost sounds like Sisko when he was impatient with Miles for a moment.

"Tomorrow, with help." Carl is calm, businesslike.

"You have help." Sir is annoyed now.

"I need someone who knows what they are doing. Not him." Carl is still just as calm and unperturbed as before. It is amazing. We just don't deal with Sir in tones like that.

"Pick someone. I'll have them switched." Sir is annoyed by the tone, but wary. Something odd is going on.

Not that I'll mind getting away from Carl, especially with this turn of events. But Sir hasn't asked how the cord broke yet. I still want to find out what Carl has to say about it.

"Why did it break? Was it deliberate?" He is nervous around Carl. Maybe his owner hasn't quite forgotten about Carl. Maybe he is being so cooperative for a reason.

"Someone cut it. But it had to be months ago, long before the rain, and they didn't do a very good job. It caused enough stress for it to break down eventually, but there is no trace of water or mud inside. You couldn't open and cut it without leaving evidence.

It's been a long time since then. Carl is calm, almost arrogant. Sir is still nervous. Of course, Sir is human, and not immune from punishment either.

"Hmmm. We didn't even ship that one in until fall. I guess you're lucky this time." He's gone stern on us, eyeing Carl with distrust but not questioning his judgement. In this weather nobody could check the results anyway.

"When will the new cord be available?" asks Carl, sounding impatient. "If it isn't soon I should close up the housing before it gets rusty."

Sir pushes a button, and one of his lieutenants enters, the same dark haired one that assigned us this morning. He glances at Carl with a look, and Carl's confidence falters for a flash. "Take him with you," he says, pointing at Carl. "He needs something from supply." Carl glances at the dark-haired caltie and despite his outer calm, I can tell he's more nervous than with Sir.

Odd, I think to myself. Then I remember the way he'd been looking at Carl this morning. Carl wouldn't be able to say no. All he needs is one guard saying he refused an order and he's gone.

"And get whoever he wants to assist. We need this working soon."

I imagine that Sir has production quotas to meet, and with a loader down he can't fill the warehouse. But when it's working we'll have a very long day making up for it. He won't punish anyone for sabotage this time, but we'll still pay for it.

Carl and the caltie leave, Carl noticeably subdued. Sir notices me. "Scrub crew the rest of the day, now."

I can live with scrub on a cold day. Inside a warehouse would be better, but it's warm around the shed. I take my leave, not giving him a chance to get annoyed.

I notice that Carl had dropped the cord in the mud. The material is swelling, making invisible any evidence he may have had. He leans over and retrieves it but the caltie has him toss it in the trash.

Walking towards the shed, I remember seeing it as he pulled it out. He lied to Sir. The cut was

hardly minor.

And I don't have to work with Carl. But apparently Realand does. Later that evening, after the rest are back, he and Carl stumble inside, wet and cold and soaked. They retire to their blankets immediately, stripping off the wet clothes and crawling under their blankets. I notice Carl is being helped by his wife, and she holds him to help warm him up. He's not arrogant anymore, just tired and weary and relieved to be inside. He watches me for a moment, looking worried, before disappearing into his wife's arms.

I realize he lied to Sir. He was worried that *I'd* betray the lie. Realand is one of the few of us left that would know how to damage the machine without it being obvious. And Realand was working there a few days before, just after Jeffrey was carried back from the warehouse badly banged up from a fall.

I was allowed to bind his ankle and check him over. Jeffrey hurt too much to glare and Realand was too worried to argue. If the ankle was broken there wasn't much I could do but hope it healed.

Realand isn't above revenge if he's angry enough. I notice he's as relieved to be away from Jackson as the snow. The boy crawls inside the blankets with him, shivering, his ankle still wrapped from where it was twisted.

I've no doubt that Carl made sure Realand understands that he owes him. I'm rather relieved that Carl isn't likely to do me any favors. I don't think I'd like what they'd cost.

But it's late. Everyone knows the loader will be fixed tomorrow and we'll have extra work, and the story is short this time. Dorothy tells an ancient Norse tale of Odin and his gifts for the children as the mid-winter passed towards spring. It's icy here, and perhaps she means us to remember that, in time, we'll too have the gift of spring.

o0o

Cindy holds the baby, looking at me as if she was having last minute doubts. The baby cried all night last night and I almost got up to see what was wrong. But she wouldn't have appreciated the attention unless it was her idea, not from me . . .

"Do you want me to look at her or not?" I finally ask.

She holds the baby towards me, pulling back the blanket. "She's been crying a lot," she says.

I sit down on our matts, gesturing for her to sit as well. She looks doubtful, but complies. Alessa is cradled on a nest of blankets. I won't ask to hold her. Cindy must be worried about the baby or she'd have done like everyone else and avoided me.

I check the baby's throat and neck, Cindy watching carefully. There is an epidemic, though none of our people have been sick. Perhaps humans are immune. We can only hope so, since there is nothing I can do about it.

Sliding my finger along the child's gums, there are several puffy spots. "I think she's just teething. She looks all right."

Cindy wraps her baby again, picking her up. She doesn't get up. "How long, do you think?" she asks.

"A few days. There's a couple of teeth so she's going to be fussy. I'll look her over tomorrow if you'd like."

She hesitates, looking at the baby and then me. "If she's not better," but she's not sure. I delivered Alessa when I was invisible to them, so there is a certain president. But now, with the way things are, having anything to do with me is something to be avoided.

I don't have social conversations with anyone. If their children are sick, or if they are assigned to work with me they tolerate my presence, but otherwise I could have never come back at all.

I let her leave. She must feel relieved since she's much less tense. But then, that could simply be that I'm done touching her child and she doesn't have to talk to me anymore.

When the Breen war began things changed for everyone, even us, but mostly we just had more to do. Now, now that *he* has taken over everything is different. I suppose it would have happened in time, even with the Founders, but it was so sudden that it is even more of a betrayal. The Jem'Hadar are gone from here, filling the role they have for centuries in the gamma quadrant, as a guarantee Dominion subjects will behave. Now, the people who guard us and run our lives answer only to *him*. We hate them and it's returned in kind.

The Jem'Hadar were impersonal. The new establishment has its own kind of viciousness. I know what the others think of me, especially now. I disappeared and didn't die in some convict gang. The only other choice was to sell myself to them, like the rest of the traitors.

But I came home. Ezri knows I made it possible for Weyoun to hide it. But she can see the guards all around us. She knows that the Jem'Hadar are still within reach, housed outside the slave camps. She knows what the Jem'Hadar would do if the Founder's demise was known. She understands now. It has made it easier for both of us.

The rest take their cue from Ezri. She openly accepts me, and is quite obviously protecting me as well. I doubt I'll wake up with a knife in my side, but they don't have to like me. Once the spring rains begin I'll be relegated to the outer edges of the scrub crew, the ones who haul the trash and do the worse cleaning jobs. Now, I haul food and supplies through the snow, work after normal hours, along with the frigid early morning snow crew before breakfast. Maybe, eventually they'll figure out that someone who had sold out to them would never come back to face this kind of life, but in the meanwhile I decide to let them think what they want. Weyoun really has nothing to worry about. He knows I'll not give away his secret. How could I, knowing it would simply condemn all of us to death.

I'm usually cold and wet and miserable, but some part of me welcomes the punishment. I didn't have to cooperate. Whatever my motivations, I chose to do it. I still betrayed them and owe them something in return. Each day I work in the muck someone else doesn't have to.

I'm always filthy now. At first I felt dirty, not like before, but I've ceased to notice the muck and the smell. I'm usually soaked, smeared with the slimy mud that fills every doorway where the ground isn't frozen. My day ends late, sometimes after dinner when I have to eat cold food by myself.

I keep wondering if living like this is worth it. But I have Ezri. We go to the beach at night, the waves so gentle, the breezes soft. I put up with the day so I can have the night and Ezri and the only life that means anything.

o0o

For some reason, I got off early tonight. I don't know why but I'm not asking either. Ezri is visiting with Cheryl, all the children playing, and I'm resting when Dorothy approaches.

I checked when I returned. The books were gone. But that night Dorothy told Ezri she'd taken them and I felt better. Dorothy is as much a treasure necessary to survive as the books are, but I know she'll take very good care of them.

She's brought a few out to read during the day, and she's very careful about them. I know I can trust her. Someday, if they ever are willing, I might be able to ask for them back.

I won't risk a fight over them. I won't risk something happening to them even if they still belong to me. Dorothy will care for them. If someone defies her, I'll protect them for her. I'm sure they haven't forgotten, even if they don't pay any attention to me now.

But I miss them. I'd like to look at Dannie's book now. Since Ezri read it, talked about it, I realize I've forgotten things. I could read a little tonight. But I'd have to ask her for the book and I can't. The rules go both ways. Unless someone needs a doctor, they ignore me, and I them.

Somehow, I can't blame them. All I have to do is look at the guards. All of them, and Sir, and his lieutenants, are traitors. I wonder if Dannie, in her world, would pretend I wasn't there too.

Carl knows, even understands. We both saved our families. Once or twice, since the repair job, I've caught him looking at me. He knows I won't betray them. I know he won't either. We both know he lied to Sir, even if it saved Realand and the son he hates. But more of us would have been punished, and he knows.

So do I. I hope Kira and Odo are happy, trapped in that room, always at Weyoun's mercy. But even if life is lonely and miserable, I'd rather be here.

This is family. Maybe I don't deserve them, but I still have a place here, even if it is to be invisible now.

Dorothy is still standing there. She has several books in hand, and I finally look up at her. "Did you want to read?" I asked.

"Not really, but these had been moved since morning. I've warned them, but my warnings don't quite have the power of yours. I'm bringing them back." She's hesitant, talking to the invisible man, but then she looks up, fixing a couple of her people with a look of warning.

I assume she knows who took them. Now I do too. I decide to stand, taking the books from her. One of them is Dannie's and I give it special scrutiny. He watches, nervous. The book is undamaged, but I take my time, watching him squirm.

"I'll help," I offer, leaving the books sitting openly on our blankets, knowing nobody would come near them. Even now, they know.

Her people have vanished when we arrive, and splitting the books between us, we carry them with loving care. She sits them on the blankets with the others. She starts to back away.

"Please don't go. You've taken very good care of them. Would you like one to keep?"

I don't know why I ask, since she looks like she wants to go. I think she doesn't want to deal with me, but the books matter more. Nobody will defy me to touch them. But she didn't want to. In one short walk across the barn, I've become important again. I hold the books, and they are the family treasure.

Now, as soon as there is light, they will have to ask again. Nobody will bother my family, or try to take the children. While I've been gone I see more missing faces than Reina, and more children with other families. There will be other births in the spring. If someone will take in an orphaned child, now, nobody will argue about it.

And you can replace children. But not books. We have a trace of our civilization left, hiding under matts, and even the ones who shun me won't argue. I'll keep them safe. What good is surviving if all the meaning is gone?

Dorothy is still there, hesitant. "I'd worry too much. I can't trust them."

She comes forward, hesitantly sitting next to me on my blankets. I hand her the short story anthology, the one with the shadow story. Leafing through it, I show her the page. "Odo gave this to me. It isn't long. Maybe we should have a quick reading tonight. We have time."

She brightens. Standing, she holds up the book. "It's short, something new from Odo." The others look my way, unable to hide their curiosity. "We'll only need a few readers."

Daniel comes forward, standing before her, trying not to look at me. None of them want to, but I offered the book and they have to listen.

He starts reading. He has a wonderful voice, so full of life when the man finds the last books to complete his collection, so full of joy. It is as if I'd never heard the story myself. She calls on one of her own people, a woman named Jean, to read the end. Her voice is softer, but full of wonder, then satisfaction.

As he becomes the Shadow, as he takes the power into himself to right the wrongs of his world, they all cheer.

For a moment we aren't in a cold, gloomy barn. We aren't slaves, but alive and ready to strike. I know they won't understand that I too am the Shadow, but it's enough to know the feeling.

Then Dorothy takes the book from Jean, carefully closing it, and brings it to me. Quietly, she hands it back. "Perhaps we could read some of the shorter passages when we have time," she suggests.

"Certainly," I say loud enough for most of them to hear. See, I'm the enemy, the traitor, but I won't deny them books.

In an instant, I'm a little less invisible, a little less the enemy. I won't deny that I like it, but I miss the readings too. Dorothy makes her way back to her matts while I stow the books. Then someone nearby stops her. "What about Homer?" he asks.

It's too dark already to read print. But she's been telling us about Homer's legendary journey across the ancient Aegean world, and like children given a special treat, we still need our story.

"All right," she says, "Where did I leave off?"

Several voices explain and she sighs. She begins again.

It feels different with the books there, but comfortable. And as she finishes and people drop off to sleep, I realize my books are not the most fragile of treasures. Dorothy is. But for her, anyone here would kill.

If the books are our treasure, she is our soul.

o0o

It's very cold this morning. The snow quit yesterday, but piles of it remain, growing higher with each storm. We push the extra against the walls of the barn, and it helps keep what warmth there is inside. At least the snow has some use.

Before, when we were supervised by the Jem'Hadar, we were just bodies. They didn't care that we traded jobs, just that the work got done. We could predict what we might be doing ahead of time.

Now Sir runs things. He has an office to himself, not as grand as *his* but it makes him important. Some are part of permanent crews, but others-especially those like Luther and I-never know what to expect anymore. We eat, then assemble for our days assignments. Sir has a warm office. He and his lieutenants don't notice how cold it is in the morning.

The door opens and the lieutenants, both human as is Sir, stride outside. They have a list and begin reading.

Carl is standing near me, looking at the ground. One of them is the dark haired one, and he keeps glancing at Carl. He's assigned to a warehouse unloading, and if possible droops a little more. The caltie watches as he moves away.

Every time he's on duty Carl gets more depressed, more quiet. It's always a warehouse, always with enough others that it won't make a difference if Carl disappears for awhile. I wonder if the others notice, or if they choose not to see. You can't condemn someone for what you don't see.

Finally, with most of the rest gone, he gets to me.

"Sloan, Bashir..."

We step forward. Lately I see a lot of Luther.

"Clean up, storage area 5," he says.

For once, I got out of snow clearance. Whatever they spilled, storage area 5 is inside. I don't even mind putting up with Luther for that. He talks a lot when we work alone, mostly about himself and his wife, married while I was away. I wonder if his marriage was as melancholy as mine, but refuse to ask him.

Nobody talks about the time I was away.

The guard pushes us inside, and we almost smile. The floor is covered with grain. One of the door seals has come loose and the bin emptied itself all over the floor. It will take hours to clean up, all of them inside.

"Hurry it up," he says. But there is no time limit. This could easily take all day.

Still we don't dawdle-no reason to attract anyone's attention.

We've been working for a little while, steadily but in no particular hurry, when Luther brings *him* up. "He must really have plans if even Sir is afraid of you."

I don't appreciate the comment. The grain is heavy, and I'm sweating under my coat. But it feels so good to be warm, really warm, I don't want to take it off.

At least Luther talks to me. "I'm a body to Sir. Just like you."

He stops working, stares at me. "Let's hope not. You're here since he isn't sure where you stand-how he's supposed to treat the pets. I'm here since when I get too cold I get too shaky to be of much use."

It is true his hands shake badly in the cold. But I am not *his* pet. "He doesn't own me. Everybody may think so, but I didn't betray them," I spit at him, angry. 'Not completely,' I tell myself.

"Look, I was his pet too. For awhile, until he was done with me. It's not easy but you have to play the game. Play it smart and you get to work in a nice warm building. Play it stupid and your best friend dies." Luther sounds bitter, his hands visibly shaking from the stress.

I don't dare start a fight, not here. But I'd like to. I'd like to smash his face in for reminding me. I lift the shovel instead, threatening.

"Don't push it," I add.

"You just needed a reminder," he says quietly. "He used them again, but you were smarter this

time."

Neither of us are working now, and I'm worried the lack of noise will be noticed. I start shoveling again, the loader almost full. Luther gets the idea and shovels as well. We fill the loader and start sliding it to the chute that will dump the loose grain into a properly sealed section. It's a noisy process and I take advantage of the noise to discourage any listeners.

"You mean Ezri. It wasn't that." I have to explain. I'd like someone to know that we dared to take a little control for ourselves.

"You pushed it, made some deal. For once you played the game smart." Luther is standing in front of me, talking low, just loud enough I can hear over the screeching of the loader as it falls into place and dumps its load.

"And look what it got me," I add.

"A breather," he says, lightly. "He'll want more. Keep being smart and you'll find a way out. Be stupid and he'll find a new pet." He stares me in the eyes. His hands are shaking worse now. His eyes are half-focused, and I see a hint of the horror he lives with. "You don't want him to find a new pet."

Luther is playing his own game, pushing me for reasons of his own. But that horror in his eyes is real, and I get the point. He still reminds me too much of the Sloan that kidnaped and tortured me, and then dared-or presumed-to consider me recruited into his cause. He reminds me too much of *him*.

But I am not Weyoun's pet, any more than I was part of 31.

"It won't make a difference to the others anyway. I'll still be up to here in muck this spring, and only have you to talk to."

"If that's what they believed, Cindy wouldn't let you touch her baby, no matter what," he says, but softly, rapidly losing it. He's looking around, a little confused. "Or Dorothy wouldn't let you have the books."

"Dorothy couldn't keep them safe," I correct him, ignoring the part about Cindy. "I'd just like it to be over," I mutter to myself.

"You don't want him to be done with you," he says, confusion and apathy taking over, Luther disappearing inside his nightmare.

I watch as he fades, looking about the room in confusion, his hands shaking so badly that he can hardly hold the shovel.

He's just standing there. Somebody might notice. I want to spend the whole freezing day inside this warm room. Maybe Luther will remember where he is before night and Nancy won't have to take care of him. "Shovel, Luther. Get to work." I keep my voice low, gentle, and he looks up at me, nodding.

I shovel most of it myself, Luther coming back somewhere near the end and trying to work through the confusion. It takes all day, and if anyone thinks I've been stalling Luther's preoccupied state of mind is enough of an explanation.

Food comes, and I sit with Ezri and gulp it down. Being warm was appreciated, but it was a two man job and Luther disappeared too early in the day.

"No beach tonight," I mutter to Ezri. All the work is a blessing in disguise. I'm too tired to think of the future and all the intangibles that would otherwise keep me awake.

She puts her arms around me, kisses me. We crawl under the covers, the children already snuggled together. They move closer, and I give them each a kiss.

"Anybody want a story?" asks one of the women.

Dorothy has been an inspiration. The woman was added while I was away and I still don't know her. But she is willing to tell the story in the books she remembers.

There is a general murmur of acceptance, and she starts the tale of Alice and her trip through Wonderland with the Rabbit. We don't have the book, but she has a daughter and had read it so many times she knew it well enough to tell it without the printed page.

Half-asleep, I stir a little when Ezri nudges me. "Hard day?" she asks.

Alice is chasing the rabbit but I'm too tired to follow it. "Luther faded on me in the morning. He moved the spill around but I did almost all the work. I guess he's doing better now." I choose to keep his conversation to myself. She'd probably argue with me and I'm too tired for an argument.

"We had it easy. There was a guard killed last night. They found him in Group 12's compound. They got demoted. We got all the easy jobs and they did the hard part."

Punishment has gotten worse, too. Group 12 will be on half-rations, or worse, for three months. They'll get the dangerous jobs, not just the hard ones. All the "extras"-like extra bedding, will be taken from them. Nobody will bother to look for who killed the guard. Individuals don't matter to the Dominion and Sir and his ilk don't make decisions like that.

It's still bad to be Sarki, but 12 has found something lower.

"I thought Luther was getting better," says Ezri, still wide awake.

"He is. I don't know what set him off this time," I lie. I won't mention his little game, nor the cost he's paying for it. I don't understand why it matters so much to him that I lie to myself.

"Nancy's pregnant. She told me this morning." Ezri looks away, keeping her thoughts to herself. I know she still wants children of her own. Maybe on the station, but here it's very unlikely, as if anyone would want to impose this life on a child.

Luther had children, way back before 31 took away his life. I wonder if she's told him, if that's why he's suddenly so concerned about me and my family. But Ezri had moved her hand to her belly, our fingers massaging the moving form of Dax inside her.

I've heard of surviving Trills, but the guard was the first I've seen. Even if he was a guard, it might make her feel a little better. Maybe when the end comes we can find a Trill willing to be joined. "One of the guards was a Trill," I say softly.

"A guard?" she says, repulsed by what I realize I'd implied.

"If he's around there must be others who aren't," I add.

"Hmmm, maybe . . . " she says, her voice drifting off.

Some things, some nightmares, we keep to ourselves. She moves our hands from Dax and rolls over so I'm facing her now.

The wind is blowing, filling the barn with a strange howl and the story is over. I hold her, wishing I wasn't so tired, wishing we could go to the beach, wishing Luther had kept his mouth shut and just worked today.

A little later I realize she's asleep, curled against me, and all I want is it to be over, to be free of *him* and the glances and the isolation, whatever it takes.

o0o

Morning started early today. A special bell rang and we were awakened before dawn. We filed into a well lit tent set up near the door where we were examined by doctors, and then vaccinated against something.

Cindy's baby was fine, but we've all heard of the epidemic that's hit the others. I don't know if we are special because we could spread it, perhaps as unaffected carriers, or Weyoun is giving us particular favors.

I simply accept our luck at being spared. It would hurt too much if, in my own way, I could not help these people. I remember how hard it was to watch Martok as he stumbled back from "practice". I couldn't even treat the cuts properly.

Maybe we could spread the disease, or just maybe *he* wants to make sure I and my family stay alive, and he can't single us out, so everybody gets the advantages.

Sir and his ilk don't know what to make of me. I'm singled out with work, but they are careful just the same. My own people, thought, know what they think.

Of course, right now, I'm not sure some of them would let the traitor even touch them if I could help.

Once, I wanted to practice frontier medicine. Be careful what you wish for. When this ends, whenever it ends, whatever suspicions are left won't matter. Doctors like myself will be needed. Only problem is, the supplies will be more rare than we are. I guess I'll get my wish then.

Work was . . . work. I was wet and muddy all day. It was hardly a surprise. But the people from 12 had it worse. A couple of them were killed today in an accident. I could see it from where I was working. For this split second, I knew I should go there, try to do something. But then sanity prevailed. Not even being *his* pet would keep me from paying for that.

Later in the day I got stuck next to Luther in a secluded spot, and he brought it up again. Since Nancy got pregnant he wants a doctor around, and I'm all he's got. I don't mind helping Nancy. Luther talks to me at least. But the others . . . Standing in the muck near the cooking area, I watched as they carefully avoided me. But, should the children get sick, or they hurt themselves at work they deign to notice me. At least then I matter a little.

Ezri pats the blanket for me to sit when I get back, late as usual. She has my food saved, and without a word I take the bowl and eat. It's cold and lumpy, but then 12 won't get any dinner.

"Luther mentioned that he could work a trade for you, something inside for a while. One of the men with a pregnant wife." She looks as if she expects me to thank him.

I stare ahead. "Luther ought to keep his business to himself."

"Julian, he's trying to *help* you." She sounds annoyed, exasperated. "You aren't the enemy. We both know that."

"Oh," I say, not intending to continue the conversation. It's bad enough that Luther insists on reminding me of *him*. I don't think I could take it if Ezri starts in too.

I look up only to see one of them, the one's avoiding me in the cook tent today, holding his arm.

"It got burned today. Could you look at it?" He won't look at me. It must hurt a lot for him to come near, actually talk to the invisible man.

For a moment I consider saying no. If it's a bad burn, I can't help and the best I can do for a lesser one is wrap it. But he's leaning over now, intruding on my space, and I look over his arm. "It should heal. Just keep it clean." At least he can. Wash duty has some advantages.

"Anything else?" he asks, disappointed, as if somehow, magically, I can make up for them and their lack of care.

I'm about to say so when Ezri moves forward. "Get something and we'll bandage it," she says, giving me a look of disapproval.

I can't stand it when she does that. "About this much should do," I add, showing him with my hands.

Miles is in my head now, berating me as well. 'Julian, you're letting *him* win. You're a doctor, even if there isn't much you can do. You do whatever you can.'

I remember Kira saying we could never give up hope, even when there wasn't anything left to hope for. It was easier to hold on to something when I knew the changelings would die and Weyoun would fail. Even if the end was bloody, it would be an end.

But the bastard is smarter than anyone expected, and thanks to me nobody knows the Founders are gone. I'm sure he salved his conscience by sending them all home, letting them die together in peace. He's saving their empire in their memory, but for him too.

Miles is still there, nagging me. 'Have some patience,' he insists. 'He'll lose in the end. Take care of your family-my family-until then.'

My unwanted patient comes back with some cloth and I bandage his arm. He even thanks me.

"I'll check it tomorrow," I say, keeping it short. I just want him to go away, want to get warm and go to sleep.

'Good,' says Miles. 'Make sure you do.'

Finally, I have some time to shut them out. Ezri is talking to someone nearby, her voice low, and the children are playing some game under a blanket-tent.

I try to sleep. But I keep thinking of Kira and her warning, wondering if the rest are having as hard a time following her advise as I am.

I miss her. I hope Odo is happier with Kira than he was alone. Weyoun must still hope that Odo will change his mind, play pretend in exchange for the favor. And he might-if he can still manage the deception. But he would never do it for Weyoun. He tolerated my dealings with the Vorta without approval, but would never cooperate on his own.

When the Vorta's house of cards falls someone is going to have to stop the Jem'Hadar. I hope Weyoun has some kind of plan in mind other than Odo. Or perhaps that will be our chance for freedom, if Odo is all that's left. Would Weyoun make a deal for Odo's cooperation and an end to all of this?

Eventually the lie will collapse and everything will be reduced to ruin. The Dominion will crumple from its own sheer weight. Do we look forward to that day, or dread it? How long from now is "eventually"? What if Odo is unrecognizable as a Founder and the Jem'Hadar do not believe him?

Either the Breen are still holding out or Weyoun was lying. We don't get anything but soupy gruel. It's hard when I remember how good the food was I had at the lab, though most of the time I'm too hungry to worry about that.

Weyoun lies to the Jem'Hadar, and perhaps the other Vorta. Why shouldn't he lie to me? We'll get kenexa fruit when he has something to celebrate, and then never see it until the next victory.

If only we never have another taste if the fruit, and no more victories for the Vorta and his new empire. I could settle for gruel if it meant him losing.

People are going to sleep, and it's very quiet now. Ezri takes me in her arms, undoing my clothes. She starts to pull them back, and I almost stop her. But I need the beach. It's the only place I can sleep anymore.

I keep my eyes closed, listen to the waves. The birds are singing in the forest, and the spray cools us while we lay warming ourselves in the sun.

I'm asleep almost immediately. The last thing I can remember is a gentle kiss as she pulls me close. *Don't worry, Miles. I'll take care of them. Nothing would matter anymore if I didn't have my family.*

End, Part 3, Chapter 20 of Surrender


	21. Surrender Part 4 Chapter 21

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 4 - Madness

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Chapter 21

Nancy lies asleep, wrapped up in blankets, Luther pacing nervously. "They said she could stay in tomorrow," he says.

"More than tomorrow," I add. "Ezri said she fainted." Luther can't stand still he's so worried about his wife. "I'd say she stays put for at least a week. They won't insist if she can't put weight on it."

Women here have two kinds of value, the work they can be made to do and the children they produce. The first is obvious. But why they want lots of children is still a mystery.

Fishing around between our blankets, I pull out The Princess Bride. It is Nancy's favorite, and suitable for the children. She can read it to them during the day. They just finished the Oz book.

I could forbid them to touch the books at all, but now, everything lost and little future to look forward to, the books matter more than ever. They are all that's left of what we were. I could get back at them if I said no, but all that would do is prove how I'd sold myself. And to get them, someone has to talk to me, touch what I touched.

That alone is enough reason for sharing.

When I have the time, I still read Dannie's book. But mostly I read about Osma and Dorothy and the Nome King. It's very satisfying to see paradise win and evil banished. It helps me believe that we might have more of a future than as sarki.

Nobody uses Kasari, the official term. Not even us, not anymore.

Luther pauses in his pacing. "Sir called you in today, pulled you off shift."

I pause before choosing to answer. He knows I can't get angry here, with people around. But I do wonder why Sir was so interested. "I have additional duties. He wanted to know when our women were due. I get to deliver the babies." Nancy groans as she moves her foot. I'm annoyed at Luther for reminding me, not in the mood to do him any favors, but he's instantly at her side, holding her hand as she sleeps.

"She okay, I mean, the baby's okay?" he asks.

"She's doing fine." I consider the cost of a favor. "Look, I'll see what I can do to get her excused, since she fainted."

Luther stops, takes a deep breath. "Sir would do it if you ask. He doesn't know how to deal with you."

He has to do this, keep reminding me over and over. "Don't bring that up again."

"It's true," he says, wearing a look that reminds me of the man I knew a long time ago.

I'll help Nancy, but I'd like him to leave me alone. Glaring at him, I snap out my words. "I don't care." Speaking very softly, I add, "I could have played along with *him* and stayed there the whole winter. But I decided to come back home where things are a little more honest." I hold up my hand. I rub the thick beard on my chin. "This is what I am to him. You too. All of these people here. Nothing more."

I don't know if it is easier to live with him since he's been getting better. He rarely talks, except-unfortunately-to me, but he seldom mumbles anymore. The baby has changed him, given him something more than revenge to look forward to.

He takes Nancy's hand. She's wearing a wedding ring. I wonder if it was the same she wore before she was made a widow. I wish I hadn't missed the wedding. I wonder who married them, or if it was just a paper filed with Sir. But even angry, I'm happy for him. Maybe she can help where medicine can't.

He's been watching me very closely today. I've been relegated to cleaning all day, and things were so busy we got behind. Come spring, I'll see a lot of him when I'm stuck in the most grimy jobs.

She looks a little warm. He waits until I lean over to check his wife. The words could mean anything, but the finger talk makes its meaning quite clear. "How soon?" he whispers.

I wonder if he knows that linking together will help the dying changelings. Or if I helped keep the illness quiet. I wonder what he thinks-or would think-about that.

"Eventually," I mumble.

He nods, and I'm sure it wasn't an accident. His expression is quite clear, and not lost at all.

I'm still convinced his behavior isn't an act, but somewhere in there the Sloan I grew to despise is still alive. But then, I appreciate the sentiments now.

"The rumors we hear," he continues, louder, "are that they are about to surrender." He's switched the exchange to the Breen for any prying ears.

"That's what I hear."

"Then they have everything," he says. He looks away, the look growing thoughtful. "For now. It won't last."

I remember studying history. It was never my best subject but I did well anyway. Empires usually expand until they collapse as they have grown too big. Except for us, a historical sense of time is too long. History is written from the empirical observers point of view, not the slaves.

I wish it were more comfort that Weyoun hasn't got a chance in the end.

Most of the women aren't back yet. They've been taking the smaller children to a separate area this week, using them to sort out little parts. At least it's warmer there than here. We go off to wait for the people that matter to us. Sloan sits by me while I rest, warming up in a couple of blankets. It's not long before the door slides open and I'm greeted by the enthusiastic hugs of two children. Not to be left out, Yoshi and Tessie have to have their own hugs.

For them there will be an end someday.

I'm hungry. The servers aren't back yet and we wait. It will be more of the lumpy soup. I wonder how long it will take to get used to it again. I've decided Weyoun was just making empty promises about the fruit.

The doors open, and Ezri and the others return. She is greeted as warmly as I was. I look at her, wondering if this is a little like she would have been if she'd been properly joined. My Ezri is there, and my Jadzia. But she's not either of them anymore.

I love her anyway.

The servers finally bring the food. We eat our disgusting dinner, and roll in our blankets to sleep. At least it's too cold for all but a few of the bugs. They are careful to rid us of the ones that could make us sick. But the ones that just make us miserable are ignored. This spring I'm sure there will be another explosion of the grey fuzzy things that were everywhere last year.

A few stories are told in the dark. We can tell the story of Oz without the book now. But it's late and cold and we are too tired. Most of the audience is already asleep.

Tomorrow it starts all over again.

I'm not waiting anymore for a tomorrow that's different. I dream of spring and fruit and light enough to read our books again. I'm looking forward to watching the children play in the morning.

The rest . . . I can't handle it right now. It comes when it comes. Let history take care of itself and future generations argue over what it means. For us, that is all too clear.

o0o

The Breen war is over. The Breen issued an unconditional surrender today. Little wonder with the amount of Jem'Hadar sent to punish them.

We are relieved. We wonder if the Breen homeworld will meet the same fate as Earth and Cardassia Prime and the Klingon home world. We really don't care. The hours are too long and too many of us remember their probes.

Beast killing beast. And they took a lot of Jem'Hadar with them. A few of us know how fortunate that might be.

Luther's been promoted to more demanding work of late and he talks to more than me now. He's on a first name basis with Daniel. If he'd give up his comments I wouldn't mind calling him a friend. I don't know if it's friendship, or the comfort of having someone else who knows. Even I'm slowly gaining acceptance again. But Luther is one of the few that talk to me unless they have to.

Now and then he uses our personal sign language to tell me things that others shouldn't hear. Miles and I once destroyed him, but it's a personal victory that we've managed to bring him out of the pit they drove him to.

I don't like to think of Miles. All I can see is the blood. Until there is some justice done, it is all I want to remember of my friend.

The scrub crew was called out to unload a crate this afternoon. Fruit. Probably kenexa fruit. I can't mention the name. It was hard work but we have a bin of it now. The worse part was keeping ourselves from taking a sample.

When I was at the lab, I had lots of sweets. I still can't get the craving out of my mind.

For once, dinner was early. It was announced that we will continue to receive fruit with meals. It's in appreciation of our work during the war. Really. But then I don't care what excuse Weyoun uses as long as he keeps his promise.

We each get a whole piece. We make the children eat the rest of their food first, but I notice a lot of people can't wait.

Whatever else I did, if it helped or hurt, I am very satisfied with the fruit. I can't give these people the gift of freedom, but at least they have a little to look forward to each day.

Little things matter a lot these days.

Little things are all that's left.

The Bajorans in this Provence were deported recently, sent away off their homeworld with the same status we enjoy because of continued acts of resistance. We can't fight back, not yet. I wish the others knew that the end had already been set in motion. I wish it would come a little sooner.

It will be easier for us now. But harder too. Somehow, in the back of our minds we hoped the Breen would win. It might not mean freedom, but it would be satisfying. It would prove our masters could lose.

I'm gazing out the window again. I wish it wasn't so dark. I'd like to see a few stars. But I notice Sloan has come over. He's being careful, making sure we're not going to be heard. He must have other news.

It's fitting. He may be a little better, but he's still seen as invisible. "Win something, lose something," he says.

At least he isn't trying to give me a lecture. I don't think either of us are in a mood for that right now.

I don't ask where he heard it. He's a good source of rumors and news. He is seldom noticed, and the guards like to talk when they think they are alone. Of course, he's right most of the time. "What did they lose?" I ask.

Something is wrong. He should not sound so down. "The terran sector, as they call it."

He can't see me, and misses the startled look. "Earth?"

"That general area. They were too busy with the Breen to defend it, especially since it's mostly deserted. They took the few prisoners left and brought them here."

Earth is in someone else's hands. It should be good news. It is the first step in the crumbling of the Dominion. But what if we want to go home someday?

Sloan pauses. "That's all I heard. No other details."

I listen as he walks away, stunned by the news. I want to go home. I don't care if it's a ruin. But I didn't expect we'd have to take it from someone else.

When the news spreads, it's going to divide us more. For humans, it will be a reminder of what was lost, and another barrier to taking it back. For the rest, it will be something to privately celebrate, that it wasn't them.

What happens when the Dominion does fail? Will we be left with nothing but little empires where we aren't welcome either?

Ezri calls out to me. "Julian, it's getting cold."

Don't think about that now. It's too hard to imagine that it can be worse than this. At least they have a use for us.

I crawl under the blankets with her and she rolls against me. "The fruit was so good," she murmurs, half-asleep. "Do we get it for breakfast too?"

Think about breakfast, and more of the fruit. Look forward to spring. Enjoy the extra sleep because I'm not on early crew tomorrow.

Think of the little things. They are all we have left.

o0o

I hold court in the early evening, off to the side of the room. It was Ezri's idea, and it works. I don't have much to offer, at least in medicines, but I can do some simple things. At least I can give back some of what I took from them when I helped Weyoun hide his secret.

They ignore me the rest of the day, but they do come in the evening.

Jeffrey is sitting on his blanket staring at his little sister. It's as close as he dare come, knowing full well he can't go near unless allowed by Realand, who isn't in the mood to allow it anymore. Maybe it has more to do with Carl than anything else, a concession to the way Carl is falling into a kind of resignation. He's not cold anymore, nor does he show the arrogance that was so noticeable at first. I wonder if Realand has noticed the way the caltie looks at him and is giving him a break. The three of us know he owe's Carl. Or is he worried that deep inside, the anger at Jeffrey is still there.

Jeffrey isn't a child, hasn't been since he defended his sister so long ago in that cargo bay. He's an eight year old terrorist in training, but Realand has nobody else. Perhaps keeping the boy under control gives him something to live for. He hasn't really changed Jeffrey, but now he's waiting for the right moment to step into the bloodbath of his future.

He's vicious and yet Realand has taught him to be smart. He never bought his father's deep seeded terror that someone will resist and he'll lose his children. But he's already gotten that revenge. Jeffrey stores up the anger, and given half a chance would find a way to use it. When I look in his eyes, I see Kira as a child, ready to strike out but not yet with the proper target.

The guards are not the only dangerous people around here. There are other Jeffreys, too, hidden among the small victims we don't even see anymore.

Jeffrey, even now, would kill one of *them* without hesitation. Is he the future of all our children?

The calties will be his first targets when the time comes, but I wonder who will come next. I remember the Bajorans who kept fighting long after the Cardassians were gone because it was the only thing left with any meaning.

Cheryl ignores him, concentrating on showing me a puffy scrape on Calla's leg, her worry legitimate. She holds the baby in her arms, still so small and innocent.

Carl, however, keeps an eye on the boy who sent him to hell. He'll never trust Realand's control, and even now, with his fall into despondency, he poses a threat to the boy. Will Realand allow him his revenge, I wonder? Or has Realand taken on the role he abandoned? Will he defend Jeffrey, whatever he has become, against the man who abandoned the boy?

But that happens tomorrow. For now, Calla's future is in question. It doesn't take much of an infection to kill here. Before, with Brenda's husband, it was almost certain once the cut turned puffy. Now, maybe he might have a better chance.

Calla squirms as I hold her leg. I've gathered a kit of sorts, some reasonably clean bandages, a piece of metal sharp enough to clean wounds, a few local remedies that grow within our reach. I've gathered some of them, and Ezri and the others most of the rest. We have to be careful, but it's important. They are amused if we stuff or pockets with grass now. They don't bother to ask why. Maybe in the spring, I'll have access to more of the native plants and can help them a little better. Even now, more people come, but they still don't talk to me otherwise.

"How long has it been like this?" I ask her softly, so as not to imply she's been ignoring the wound.

"Since last night. I don't know how she scraped it, but it was healing before."

The wet weather has made infections a big problem. One of the local remedies works fairly well, and grows within our reach, a mossy film you can find under the snow. But the wound has to be cleaned first. "Hold her still. This will hurt but it has to drain."

Jeffrey inches closer, keeping an eye on me. If I wasn't a doctor, if his mother hadn't brought Calla here, he would be more of a threat. But I wonder how long he can contain the explosion building within him.

Calla cries as I clean out the wound. But it's not deep. She'll be fine if it stays clean for long enough. At least she's small enough and young enough to be allowed to stay inside right now. I soak a fold of bandage in the boiled down syrup, a combination of a the moss and a power from a local grass dried under the snow, and cover the wound with it. Then I finish the bandaging. "I'll check her over again tomorrow."

Cheryl can go now. She's taken care of her child, let the traitor do what nobody else can. People disappear quickly when I'm done.

But not now. She watches as Calla goes to her own blanket to play and get warm. Jeffrey starts minding his own business, but I keep a wary eye on him anyway. I'm sure he'd kill anyone who hurt his sister even now.

Cheryl starts to stare. "Is there some other problem, maybe with the baby?" I ask, hoping she'll leave.

"No. You know Carl offered to trade jobs. So have others. Why won't you accept?"

First Luther, now others with children. All she wants is to make sure I'm here to treat her family. We're in the middle of a bad cold snap with a lot of snow. I'm trying to get over a cold and the snow isn't helping. Carl works an inside job most of the time. It would help to stay warm, but just in case they ask her for me, I've made it plain to Ezri I won't trade.

"Because I won't," I reply, keeping my voice even, pushing away the frustration. "You tolerate me because of this." I wave my hand over the medical kit. "Don't bother to pretend there's any more to it."

"Maybe we do," she says, just as evenly. "What does it matter? What did you do that you feel so guilty about?" she insists.

At least she has a right to ask. She must have some idea of what Carl did and forgives him.

"Do you want me to look at your daughter tomorrow or not?" I snap at her, just wanting her to go.

She regards me cooly. "Doctor," she says with emphasis, "When are you going to realize that you matter around here, that whatever you are to *him* you're more important to us. Do you know how many doctors are left? Of any kind?" She pauses, letting it sink in.

I glare at her. She has grown stronger as Carl has become more resigned. Since Carle was born, she's been a kind of leader among our people. "I know. I do what I can." I try to move away, but she follows me.

"Yes, and your trying to kill yourself too. I don't want to know what you did when you were gone. I'm sure it wasn't so terrible or you'd be one of the uniforms. Carl is afraid of twitching in front of them. You're not. I'm sure you made some deal, but it must not have been all that great if this is what you got for it."

She grabs my hand, looking at the mark. "It was enough," I say, barely hiding the anger.

If it wasn't for the baby, I'd yank my hand free. But she lets it go instead.

"Good," she says. "Be angry. *He's* using you. Can't you figure it out that people avoid you because you shove them away? Don't blame us for what *he* did."

She walks away, back to her family. Jeffrey is still watching, though no longer staring. Carl looks away. I wonder if he wonders if I'll turn the next time, or just fall into pieces like he has. I wonder if he's worried that his owner will come again, and his nightmare will start all over again-if any of it has ended.

I still have nightmares about Internment Camp 371, even if it is by now ancient history. It was the moment my life turned from promise to nightmare, and I'll never forget. I doubt Carl will ever let go of the lost feeling he had in that cell, waiting for our fate with no family and no hope. Even now, he clings to them all the harder, more than afraid he'll lose them again.

He isn't comfortable about his wife's conversation either. He watches from a little away, nervous about what was said. It's no surprise Carl would trade. We both want to save our families. Given my options, he would have done the same. But for him there would be no guilt.

If only it was that easy for me. If only I could end it as simply as Carl would. But somehow, someway, I will find a way for it to end before even my family ceases to matter.

o0o

It's snowing outside, just warm enough that the pathway has turned to slush. Outside, our feet slip and we keep getting soaked. Inside the warehouse, it's warm and we get a respite from the cold. The crates are heavy and every muscle hurts.

Luther and I have been assigned the unloading of a shipment of supplies, and we don't get dinner until they are inside. My shoes are covered with slick mud, the snow near the warmer warehouse door having melted, and my foot slips. The crate crashes to the floor and all the parts dump on the ground.

Luther stops, heading out the door to the snow. "Well, we get to stay inside for a little while," he says.

I'm already reloading the crate, first having hauled it empty to its place in the stack. A few more trips back and forth will be easier than dragging it full. The parts stack, and we're lucky they aren't breakable. Even if some of them are damaged, nobody will know for months. He comes to help, but even with both of us it is going to take a while, and we still have a lot to unload. It's going to be harder once it gets colder outside and the slush ices up.

"It'll be worse later, this spring, when it's raining," I add, trying to make the best of it. We'll get a chance to warm up a little, at least.

"Yeah," says Luther. "They'll let you out of the muck before they do me."

I'm not really in the mood for conversation, especially not that one. We have this discussion every so often and he knows I don't like it. But he keeps pushing. And he's wrong anyway. He's already getting better assignments than he did, and as long as he stays more steady on his feet he'll keep them. For me, despite the doctoring and the books, outside I'm still being punished. "No, they'll let me serve then. More wet and muck to trudge through that way." I've got a small pile of parts stacked and carefully pick them up, leaning the stack against myself. Moving towards the open crate, I drop them inside, making a loud thud. "Not that they wouldn't rather just get rid of me," I add.

I came back where nobody else does. I was clean, obviously well fed with new books. What else was there to think but I'd sold out to Weyoun and his calties. They tolerate me, let me treat their wounds, but don't trust me.

Luther is startled, freezing up for a moment, shaking. I know he can't help it but it annoys me that he's not working.

He recovers quicker than he used to, taking a breath. "They don't consider you a caltie, not any more than they do Carl or Ezri or me."

I wish he'd stop talking and start working. "If it wasn't for Ezri I'd be dead by now. And you know it." Luther is still just standing there. We don't have time for a break. I'm not particularly fond of the subject either. "Get back to work or we'll miss dinner," I snap at him. He kneels down, slowly picking up parts, dumping them in a pile. But he's still looking at me. "You don't get it, do you?"

Even more annoyed by his dawdling, I drop my next stack of parts into the crate, a bigger stack making a louder thud that echoes around the room. "Get what? That I'm lucky to be allowed to get soaked in the snow?"

He freezes again, shaking this time. I should care but I'm too annoyed at him for making this miserable day more trouble. He gets control of himself, looking up and staring calmly at me. "You know why they leave me alone?" he asks.

"Because your crazy," I answer. He's *here* now, but he still slips off somewhere else too often. He's still not dependable enough for a lot of work.

"Perhaps. But mostly because *they* had such an unhealthy interest in me. *He* is even more fixated on you than that. You're dangerous to be around."

I wish I had my next load ready. I'd make it even louder. I'm a caltie to them and maybe he doesn't like having to work with one so he's coming up with this new story. "Of course, since they assume *he* will get what he wants again, if he bothers to ask." I glare at Luther, daring him to disagree.

"He will ask," he says. "It doesn't matter what they think you'll do." He's leaning over his pile of parts, stacking them now. I'm tempted to pick them up myself, let him pull in the next crate from outside. But they're too heavy for one person to move. He'd just as likely spill them in the snow and we'd be in far more trouble than with this one, not to mention icy cold and soaked.

"Would you get to work?" I snap at him, letting loose the bitterness inside that mention of Weyoun has released.

"Think what you want then, but if they really thought he owned you not even Ezri could protect you from an *accident*."

I glare at him again, and this time he ignores me. He picks up his pile of parts, and we get back to working. There is no more conversation the rest of the miserable day.

At least we finish in time for dinner, but it takes half the night to get warm and I'm sound asleep before they get around to telling a story.

o0o

It's cold, more than the day before, and drizzling. The snow from the night is melting into a thick slush, and my boots are already half-soaked from waiting outside Sir's office. It's going to be a miserable day no matter where I'm assigned, but with weather like this it will be outside.

Then one of the lieutenants, the tall and dark haired one, looks at me with an odd look. "Jackson, Bashir, Warehouse seven cleanup. You have until afternoon."

Carl is improving, with the coldness becoming a deep bitterness, and he's easier to be around now. He's not ignoring his family and everyone has noticed he's sleeping with his wife again. But still, there is something disturbing about Carl. I don't want to work with him, especially not in a warehouse alone. But it is inside. How I got assigned to anything so warm is the real mystery. But I follow Carl as he heads toward the line of warehouses.

He waits for me to enter first. It's dark inside, and I hesitate, but the guards outside insure that I do. Carl strolls inside after me and the door shuts.

I can hear it lock, too. Odd. Then the light comes on, and I realize there is nothing inside to do. It's almost empty. But Carl is standing there, looking me over like I was some of the meat he worked over with his owner, grinning at me.

I should have guessed. Just because Ezri can't hide the shattering, it doesn't follow that it applies to everyone, especially Carl. And this isn't the Carl Jackson who is starting to hold his children, who shares his blankets with Cheryl again. This is the man who helped torture a woman to death because he was told to.

"How did you arranged this?" I ask before I realize the answer. I remember the odd look the dark haired caltie had given me.

"A trade. The tall one, kind of pudgy with the dark hair, he was interested in a very personal favor." Jackson is walking towards me, still *looking*. I don't want to imagine what that personal favor was. I don't want to be the one to pay for the hidden anger inside him, the anger the dark-haired caltie has kept alive over the time, and made sharper. Carl wouldn't dare show it to him. But I'm different. I have no power over him. I don't know if I should hope that this cold man stays in control, or if that isn't worse.

And there is no way out of the warehouse. I know what sort of things Carl did to survive, what I'd guess he's still doing. I can't help but wonder what he has in mind this morning. But I know the look. It's the same one the caltie gives Carl.

How did I walk into this trap? This isn't the same man who ate breakfast holding his infant daughter. I remember the way Ezri shattered, and wonder how badly Carl has. He's been so quiet, so withdrawn-especially after the days the dark-haired one is on duty. We got used to him. We saw the danger in Jeffrey-but not Carl. A cold killer stares at me, raking me with his eyes, and I'm the first of our own to see.

Whatever the explanation, the danger is tangible and I assume I have to stop him before he is able to do what he has planned. The glint in his eyes, the amused smile, all make me certain I must stop him.

I back away from him as he strides towards me. "Don't touch me or you'll be sorry," I warn him in the same tone that banished Realand and the others. But I don't know if it will work on this strange man in Carl's body.

"Who said anything about that?" he asks calmly. "What wrong with spending the morning in a warm, dry room? I just wanted a private conversation, that's all."

"Then talk," I say, still keeping my distance, wary, not believing him.

"You know, this is very odd," he says, coming deliberately closer. "Here you are afraid of me, *you* who has given them all a warning you'll kill anyone who touches you matts or anything that belongs to them. You know why they leave you alone, even now? Oh, your wife makes a public display of supporting you, but *really* they're afraid. If they try anything and it fails, you'll kill them. If they succeed you wife will take a suitable revenge. They don't like you but they don't want to die."

For a moment I'm surprised, distracted. I didn't know Ezri had established that sort of reputation. "Just what makes them think she'll do that?" I ask, curious.

"Something. Has to do with your middle child and a stray comment that came her way. She didn't like it much." He dismisses the whole subject. "Maybe she'll tell you some day."

Joran, I wonder? Or is the Ezri that came together a little too much like me? But that is something I have to work out later. Right now Carl is the biggest problem. "That isn't what you want to talk about."

"No, not really." He starts towards me, near the wall. I know I don't want to be there but don't want to react too much, feed his mood. But I'm aware of the sort of things Carl has done and how he'd be willing to do them again. He stops, not quite in front of me. "Did he call you Doctor'? Did it feel good to be so important? Or did he just use your name, make you more than one of the bodies for hire?"

I remember Weyoun calling me by my title, how odd it felt, and Jackson sees it in my eyes. "He called me whatever he wanted."

Abruptly, Jackson moves behind me and touches me, his hand on my shoulder where his brand is. "I'll bet if I pulled off that uniform there wouldn't be anything to see. Yours is invisible. But it's there. You let him buy you this time."

I look away as he moves around, can't look at him. At the end of my research, I knew little more than at the start, but I did it. I never once tried to stall. I cooperated this time. I never lied to him or had any hidden agenda but keeping my family alive. They are safe because of it, but it doesn't change what I did.

And he sees it. "How does it feel?" he asks.

"What matters is that my family is alive."

"Oh yes, that's why, I suppose. Too bad you didn't extend that courtesy to Miles and the others before."

I have no answer. If I defend myself, I'm branded as no better than him. If I don't he will move in for the kill. Or maybe he will anyway.

He moves behind me again, replacing his hand on my shoulder. This time he starts to slide it down my back, and I stiffen at the contact. "Get your hands off of me," I warn, now spitting out the words in deadly earnest, ready to kill him if necessary.

He ignores me, trailing fingers along, using nails to scrape against my clothes. I'm fuming now, ready to smash him. I don't want to get in trouble, but he *will* get his hands away.

He tries to slide his hand below my waist and I draw the line. I whirl on him, smashing a fist to his jaw. He's pushed halfway across the room, landing on his side.

But he sits up, rubs his jaw. "Touchy, aren't we," he comments. I realize the threat won't be enough. Carl won't back down so easy as the rest. He pulls himself to his feet, standing before me. "I wondered if he had to soften you up a little before you complied, break you down. But I guess not. Nobody's ever tried to touch you." He steps back, saving himself another fist. "Yet. He'll get tired of you eventually. You'll find out."

"Who put you up to this?" I ask, knowing he won't tell me, or maybe hoping he won't. If he does it means he plans to kill me. But I understand now. They've been patient, allowing me to live with them but they still want to know.

He stares at me with hard, cold eyes. "He didn't have to force you into anything. All he needed was to tell you what to do."

I had my own reasons he can't know, but it's uncomfortably close to the truth. He can spot the guilt too easy for my own good.

"You know, I don't like the way my jaw feels. I think you have to make up for it." He turns, watching as I move away from the wall. Then he pulls out the device, holding it up for me to see.

It's a prod, but not the kind the Breen used. It's one of the special kinds he used to torture people with for his owner. The look in his eyes is full of excitement, even anticipation. I remember when Joran came out and Ezri tried to kill the man who kicked Molly. I have a feeling that Carl-the Carl we've come to know again-is as unreachable as she was at the moment I stopped her.

Somehow, I have to stop Carl. If I kill him, will they assume I was hiding the truth and finish the job themselves?

"You think your wife will protect you forever? Certain people want to know what you did, if you deserve to live. If I don't think so I get to do whatever I please."

He's grinning again, stripping me with his eyes. "Look what you did to keep your wife safe," I taunt him. "Is that what you propose for me?" All I want is to force him into action before he's ready, to get the little prod with the wires sticking out away from him before he can use it.

He smiles. "Interesting. I never thought of that but it would be suitable. And quiet. They execute traitors that way. Why shouldn't we? It wouldn't be all that hard to find a little strip of leather."

His grin has vanished, and he's playing with the device now, pulling wires loose. I back away, forcing myself not to run. It's evident what he's planning, but I have to be close enough to grab it from his hand before he can use it.

"You touch me with that and I'll kill you." I don't take my eyes off Carl, especially his hands. I need a distraction but there isn't anything in the empty warehouse. He's nearly done, obviously setting up some power unit now. It's now or never. I think of Jeffrey and his rusty knife a lifetime ago as I grab for his wrist.

And miss. He jabs it into me before I can get away and the thing starts to pulse. It doesn't hurt at first, embedded in my shoulder, but my arm goes numb. I can't move it. Before I can recover Carl spins me around and jabs it in my neck.

I can't move at all. It is as if I've been paralyzed but can still feel.

He pushes it against me, pulsing slightly. The waves don't hurt but I know they are only the beginning. Numbed by the charge I can't stop him from shoving me against the wall.

Then something different happens. A small needle slides through my clothes into my spine. I freeze, every muscle stiffening.

The pain grows slowly, not too bad, as he stands directly behind me. My heart is pounding in anticipation. Then he must notice something and suddenly he stops. I still can't move yet, even with it gone.

"I am working for someone, you know, someone you'd never suspect. Or don't know that well. But I find out if you deserve to live."

Why did this surprise me? Aside from using Carl, I realize I should have expected it. I'll have to tell him something. I don't want to find out how creative he can be. But what?

He shoves the probe in again, mid-spine, and I slump limply against the wall. But he ties my wrists just to be sure. "What did he want you to do?" he asks.

"Research." I say it between clenched teeth, the pain growing each time the probe pulses, building to a crescendo.

"Into what?" he demands.

I think of Garak suddenly. And Sloan. Together they say, 'Lie.'

"Genetics, some projects I'd left behind. I don't know why. Anyone could have done it but he wanted to make *me* do it. You wanted to prove your point. You've done it."

He stops pushing the needle in further, retracting it, but doesn't turn it off. "He owns you. Say it."

"Weyoun owns me," I say between gasps for breath and he moves the device down.

He's not done. He got me to admit what he wanted to. Now he can make his judgement. But he'll get the thing away from me. Or he would if this wasn't personal too. Does it have something to do with Ezri and the little taunt about her reputation?

"I should take you down," he mutters, sounding entirely different now, "like the new ones in the box, all scared and fighting. You hurt them, make them scream. Then you punish them for the screams, find out what they are really afraid of." He sounds dreamy, as if he's back there, as if he liked it.

I can't move. I can't stop him. If he wants to rape me, hurt me with the prod or whatever else he has, I can't do anything about it. It would almost be better if there was anger but it's gone. He amused, bored. Where he is this kind of thing is so routine that he had to get creative to keep it interesting.

But how did he get the prod? I'm desperately trying to get my mind off his plans, and choke out a question. "Who gave that to you?"

"This?" he says, jabbing it in the small of my back very hard, causing me to nearly fall. "Remember I have *contacts* beyond our lowly existence. The guard got an extra favor if he'd make contact with my owner. I figured he wouldn't want me again, but it might amuse him to make a temporary loan."

He waits. Every muscle is twitching, tingling. Movement means throbbing pain. Finally he pulls me back from the wall, forces me to my knees. Then he starts to pull back my clothes, and I try to stop him but can't.

He exposes my back. He's standing there just waiting. "I have an idea. If I tell them they didn't do anything to you, you just cooperated, your dead. Either I kill you or they do. Your choice. Maybe they take care of your wife as well since she'd get back at them." He sounds odd, his voice soft, comforting now. "But you gave me some good advise. I like having a family again. You were right, he'll do what he wants whatever I do. I have to thank you for that." He thanks me by tapping the probe to the groin. I gasp from the pain, panting hard.

Suddenly his voice softens. "I remember when I held my daughter the first time. She's so little and so warm and soft. I couldn't have imagined it before. Thank you." Then, as abruptly, his voice hardens again. "For that, I'll spare your life. If you win."

He's going to play a game. I can't imagine the sort of game Carl would think up. I don't want to know, just that he get it over with.

"This is it. You don't make a sound. Not even a whimper. You do, I tell. You don't I keep it to myself.

He pulls down my clothes to my wrists and blindfolds me. "Understand?" he asks. I nod, even the simple movement hurting. But I believe him, somehow. He played this game before and is used to it working.

He begins. Teeth clenched, I can taste blood as I bite my own tongue. He plays with my back a little, and I let myself fall down, hoping to protect my chest, and the rest of the places he can reach. But he grows bored with my back, rolling me on my side and pulling down my clothes to my knees.

It all becomes a haze of pain, but I keep absolutely silent. I don't know if it's to save myself or because I know he's right that Ezri would be eliminated too if they thought she'd revenge my death. I don't know where he's touching me, don't apply any labels anymore. It's just agony. And then it isn't anything at all, just blackness.

I come to, laid out on the cold floor, naked with my clothes folded under my head as a pillow. My hands are no longer tied, the blindfold gone. My vision is a little fuzzy, but I can see the unfocused gaze in Carl's eyes, the lost look I've seen in Luther's. He's stroking me gently, his touch still agony as he mumbles to himself.

"You win, you know. I'll tell them he hurt you first. They won't forgive you but will let it go. They won't kill your wife."

He moves his hand, playing with me. I can't move, and it hurts. If I could stop him, I'd kill him to do it. But I can do nothing but lie unmoving as he uses my body as a toy.

Then, looking at his eyes, I realize he's not even aware what he's doing and he's still mumbling. "He let me scream the first time. It's easier if you can scream. Then I couldn't. And when he was done, he took me."

My heart is pounding, breathing in short gasps, as he tenderly caresses me with a touch of fire. He's lost in his fantasy, acting out old nightmares. He's going to act out that one as well. I'm certain, panic starting to edge out any semblance of rational thought.

Then he stops, his hands pulling away. "Sometimes when I'm with Cheryl I think of that, and instead of her I see him there, and I can't tell her." He closes his eyes, hands held before him as he was looking at them.

"You'll be able to move in a while. I didn't know he was going to do that. I couldn't stop him." He says it very quietly, trembling, utterly lost. "I'll stay here until then. I won't let him touch you."

Carl, or whoever this is he's become, doesn't know he did it himself. Inside, Carl is just as shattered as Ezri, but it doesn't show most of the time.

I'd like to find out who hired him, who splintered him worse with the memories. But he won't tell, may not even remember. I'll have to live with the uncertainty, never really knowing who tried to destroy both of us.

Carl just sits, staring at his hands and the door. The pain grows easier and I fall asleep. But sometime later-I still hurt too much to get up yet-he shakes me awake.

Pushing away pain, I realize this is the man who used the prod on me. He's smiling again, his eyes playing down my body, not hiding the interest.

"You want to kill me," he says.

As soon as possible, I think, but don't say it. Not when I can't sit up. "Maybe there will be an accident."

He grins, tapping his shoulder. "Not to me. If there is, remember my friend on Sir's staff? And him," he says, touching the brand again. "Neither of them would like that much. You touch me, you pay for it. And I did do you a favor."

He'd spare me. In his head I'm Weyoun's property. If he thought he could get by with it, he'd do more than look now. But just as Ezri and the children are hostages to Weyoun's whims, now they are to him too.

But Carl is dangerous to everyone. This side of him will never be seen inside the walls of our barn, but I know. "Who says I'd have to kill you. What if Realand knew about you? How long would Carl last."

"He does. Maybe not as well as you do, but he knows. So does Jeffrey. You'd better hope they keep it to themselves."

Carl means his threat just as much as I mean mine. "Never touch me, or my family or anyone else for that matter or it won't matter who is protecting you." I pull myself up with strength I can barely manage. "Remember *you* have a family too. What if the others discover your little secret? How long do they last?"

The smile fades. Even this part of him cares enough to protect them. "Remember that the next time you decide to play doctor," he says, and I realize he knows about the small cache of salt and herbs hidden in my matts.

For now we're even. Neither of us will let our family's be hurt. But someone knows about Carl, what lies inside the withdrawn bitterness, the one that hired him. Who, I wonder, as the tormentor fades and the broken man returns.

Carl sits down again. "I tried to keep him away. I can't make him go." He looks me over. "He didn't hurt you?"

"No," I answer, perplexed and alarmed. How do I protect my family when I have to let him live?

He's almost like a child now. "The door's unlocked. Rest awhile. He's got it all arranged."

I watch as he stumbles out, lying down again, not ready to face them yet.

When I wake up, he's gone. Slowly, I drag myself to my feet, force aching muscles to move as I dress.

I stumble outside, and I'm motioned to the office. The dark haired lieutenant is working inside. He gives me the same amused look he did before. "Your *partner* told me about the accident. Take the day off in your blankets."

I stumble blindly back home, the door opened for me. Several others are inside, and I collapse on my matts, pulling the blankets over me and closing my eyes to everything but the pain.

Carl is curled up in a ball underneath his blankets. Later I hear the others come back, Ezri hurrying to me. She tries to check me over but it still hurts to move, and I won't tell her what happened. She stares at Carl, but doesn't figure it out.

If I did, or she did, she'd probably kill Carl. I should want that, but not yet. Cheryl is holding him like a child, as he sobs, and I pity her. At least Ezri knows she's my hostage.

For a brief moment, he looks up at me, very worried. I remember what I threatened. I sounded cold, but wonder if I could do that to Cheryl and the little girls.

Something will have to be done about Carl-but not right now. Someone else knows, and I'll be watching everyone around him very closely to see who it is. By then, the caltie will find someone else and his owner will have forgotten.

Dinner arrives, and Carl sits up, staring blindly at nothing, too much like Luther when I first discovered he'd been on the station. But that isn't Carl, just a piece of him. What if the rest of him, that cold amused tormentor, lies in wait and listens? But then, he knows about my doctoring, and my stash. If I'm not dead or deported now, he has some reason to keep quiet. Luther is sitting on his matts, watching Carl, noting the bruised jaw, and then glancing curiously at me. I can guess what he assumes. I wonder if he'll try to bring it up.

Then Carl notices I'm watching him, tensing, suddenly very nervous. We both meant our threats, but he has a greater danger facing him than I do. What if he gives the caltie another "favor" and someone notices? What if his vicious alter ego comes out at the wrong time, if he's viewed as too dangerous for the rest? He can threaten all he wants, but never act as openly as I can.

They know about me. They know better than to take chances. After all, the one who had to know used Carl to find out, wouldn't risk himself.

But he'll slip. Or her. I don't care much who it is. I just want to know. Maybe Carl is immune to *accidents* but the one that pointed him at me isn't.

I'll get to Carl later, if necessary, if they haven't destroyed him already.

I hope not, but I'd rather get the ones who used him. Dinner comes eventually, and I eat mine watching him closely. He never looks up. He knows the game I'm playing.

Ezri tries to hold me but it hurts. Or I remember the pain, I don't know. But we don't-*can't*-go to the beach.

For that alone I'd like to kill him or her, and Carl. I don't sleep well and it's cold and I know, now that the test is done I'll go back to the cold wet work tomorrow.

I'm hostage to Carl now too-just as he is to the caltie and to me.

But Weyoun owns me. I don't come willingly, but I come. What else really matters?

Luther is right. They worry about me since *he* keeps dragging me back. And so is Carl. Isn't that what it means to be owned?

It's very late and I didn't get very much sleep. I'm too tired to stay awake anymore, even with Ezri holding throbbing muscles. But I dream of the day *he* comes again, and how, *somehow*, I'll end it this time.

Who cares about the rest if this is all that's left me?

End, Part 4, Chapter 21 of Surrender


	22. Surrender Part 4 Chapter 22

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 4 - Madness

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consentual sex. It is not in every chapter or even found frequently but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is referenced in this story:

The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells

Chapter 22

Off in the distance the bell is ringing, and we shake ourselves awake. The weather is still too cold. Between Ezri and I and the four children we manage to warm up at night, rolled togther sharing all the blankets and each other's warmth. But the day is a different matter. I'm assigned snow clearing today. It will be icy cold and wet and miserable. I don't want to wake up.

But we have no choice. Untangling ourselves, we aren't ready to leave the warm blankets. I still hurt from Carl's *test* and she is still waiting for an explanation. The children stay covered, as I notice Ezri looks a little pale. "How are you feeling?" I ask her, worried she might be sick.

"I'm fine," she says, dismissing my concern. "Anyway, we're working inside today. Don't worry about me. You're the one that needs to be careful."

"I am," I answer, "I don't get in anybody's way."

"Julian, you're going to end up really sick this way. We'll get someone to trade." She pulls me back after I put on my coat. "Listen, Nancy is sick. We can't lose you. You're the only doctor around."

I already know. I've already looked at her for Luther. She has a cold. If it stays a cold she'll be fine. If not, I can't really help her, and Ezri knows it.

It's going to be miserable today, and I just want to be left alone to get my food before we have to go. Ezri is getting up, pulling on her coat, wrapping up the children in the extra blankets. She's about to say something else, and I don't want to hear it.

"She's doing fine," I snap at her. "Luther asked me to check her over last night. She's almost over her cold." Even with my coat on I'm shivering. I don't want to talk to anyone right now.

"Julian . . . " she says, but I'm moving away.

The snow crew is sent out first, and we have to be ready early.

Then quite abruptly our normal routine is disrupted by the door opening, icy cold air filling the already chilly room. Several guards stand in the door. They are not Jem'Hadar, but they are armed.

"Bashir, come now!" orders the man.

I freeze where I'm standing. I'll need my boots and hat. I must have a chance to say good bye to my family. These aren't camp guards. They are from Weyoun's special unit of calties, and should they find themselves alone, anyone here would risk the danger of killing them. Even Carl, I think-or me. It would be one way of ending this nightmare.

"Get dressed now," snarls the woman, and I notice the looks she's giving Ezri, how much they would resemble each other without Ezri's spots. She continues. "Hurry it up or you go like that."

I rush to our blankets, Ezri taking my hand, the argument forgotten. She looks scared, but she doesn't show it aside from her eyes. She hands me my boots and kisses me on the cheek. "I love you," she says. "Come home."

Of course, we both know that isn't up to me. Or, perhaps in some terrible way it might be. I think of the guards, how nobody would miss them, how their deaths would be good news to the rest of the people in this room, even if I killed them. She must see the anger and resentment in my eyes, squeezing my hand harder now. She's more scared than before, but she's still perfectly calm. "Do what you have to," she says, almost a whisper, and her eyes say good bye. But we do not say the words.

Slipping on my boots, then my hat, I lean down to kiss the children. I can't go without doing that. Molly grabs my hand. "Daddy, I love you," she says. She's crying.

Tessie reaches out, hand tangled in my beard, and Ezri has to separate it while I hold Tessie in my arms. She just stares at me as I move away, Ezri keeping her from following.

I can feel Carl's eyes boring into me, watching. He doesn't look like any of his shattered selves, just the despondent man he shows the world, at least to most of them. But I see. He has a little smile. Then it vanishes and he looks away.

Carl is back, but not in control. Realand and Daniel and Luther are starting too, but in shock. We don't get visits by the Specials very often. This time Weyoun is making sure everyone knows why I'm going.

Dorothy looks at me, calm but worried. She has already said that Ezri can take care of the books better than she, and Ezri has already established that she is under our protection too. I'll miss Dorothy. Some part of me wonders if I'll see her again, but this isn't the usual taking. More of me assumes this is good bye.

I nod towards the older woman who holds our history. She nods back.

But the cold is filling the room, making it worse for everyone. All of them are staring at me. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to move. Silently, I say good bye.

Just in case . . .

Outside, they hurry me along through piles of snow, the door now shut, to a small personal transport. I'm pushed inside between them. I offer my hands, resigned to being cuffed, but unexpectedly they leave me alone. Their jackets opened, I can see they wear uniforms, though they should be in prisoners coveralls. They are Weyoun's *personal* body guards. I take a deep breath, considering if Luther was right after all, worried that Carl's prediction is going to come true this time. Maybe I am a danger to the others. Maybe it would be better to find some reasonable way out. Is Carl's way the only one, to force him to give up and live with the concequences?

The transport rides along the ground until it passes through the outer gates of camp, only lifting off after it clears the outside walls. I consider if it would be possible to take them in this confined space, but doubt I could kill both before they killed me. Instead, I lean back my head, closing my eyes, trying to stay calm. Maybe there will be a better time.

Then the pilots compartment slides open, and I have to look at the sky. For a moment I'm caught up in memories, looking down on the planet that has become our home. The transport is sub-orbital, but beneath us is a vista of clouds with bits of water and land peaking through it. From here, it could be Earth. But these creatures, these traitors, work for the people who destroyed it and the memories turn bitter. And then I see the pilot, realize he is human. I stare at him knowing the guards would never let me get close enough, still enjoying the thought of my hands around his neck. But they notice.

"Stay back or I'll make sure of it," the largest one says, yanking me back by the shoulders, slamming me against the hard seat. Winded by the shove, I hold up my hands in submission, still glaring at them, but looking away. When they don't restrain me, I place my hands very carefully on my lap.

The woman looks as if she's just waiting for an excuse to use the restraints, that she would enjoy tightening them to see how much I'd squirm.

The other one is more direct. "One move and I'll make it real tight," says the burly one again, giving me another shove for good measure. I lean my head back, looking down, where they won't notice the poison glare I'm still directing towards the pilot. But other than that I don't move. There's no point in resisting and getting my hands bound behind me. It hurts too much. The cuffs will be too tight even when they're not trying.

They wouldn't kill me anyway, save me from Weyoun. They already belong to him.

Pushing down the anger, careful not to give them reason to prove anything, I tell myself that someday these people will pay for what they've become. If I'm still around, I very much look forward to it.

It could be worse. At least the transport is warm, and I savor the heat. If it wasn't going to end in front of *him* I wouldn't mind it taking longer. But I want this to be over. Maybe getting warm has given me a new perspective. This has to end. I don't care if it ends with me dead as long as I take out someone else with me, especially if it's Weyoun.

Of course, I'd have to play some sort of game, lull him into trusting me enough to get close enough with enough time. If nothing else, it would be a satisfying way to die. But I don't know if I could make myself play the game again. I've played it before and look where it got me. Then, all too soon, we land in the middle of a large complex, and the burly guard yanks me out of the craft. I stand where I am told, waiting . . .

"You want to clean him up?" the burly one asks the woman.

"Sure," she says as if she would enjoy doing it personally. My skin crawls, thinking of Carl, but I stumble ahead, the rifle pointed at me. Should I run and end it now, or find out what Weyoun wants this time?

But then, I would like a shower first . . . even with her watching.

Using the rifle, I'm pushed into a small, very utilitarian cubical and ordered to strip. The slime smiles, her eye wandering down as I pull off the coveralls. The gloved hand gestures for me to turn around when I show my back, and I comply, the order backed up by the rifle.

I keep thinking of Carl, of his leering exploration, of his warning. Weyoun wouldn't allow her to touch me. Or would he?

I wish it was Jem'Hadar. They never cared enough to stare. Pointing at the shower with the rifle, I'm told to wash, and do it well. She chuckles, says I'll have to prove I'm clean first. I can almost feel the filthy hands on me, but the shower feels good and distracts me enough I can stand to be in the same room. Then, still naked, she makes me stand and inspects me closely, all of me, touching me here and there. I tense with each contact, still hurting from Carl's personal torture, his open interest still on my mind. The guard only enjoys the reaction, chuckling to herself as if amused. Then she just stares, shaking her head. "I guess you're clean enough," she says, but still looks, holding the clothes, teasing and now openly leering at me. But Burly can be heard asking when she's going to be done. Annoyed, she throws the clean clothes at me, and watches carefully as I dress. It's a relief to be covered, but I know she isn't seeing the clothes.

It was a sonic shower, but I haven't been this clean in months. But I think I'd rather have the Jem'Hadar with their penchant for fists than these traitors who stare. I don't mind being undressed anymore. But I felt *naked* with the guard watching. I'm certain if Weyoun wasn't waiting she'd have tried much more than look.

If she dared. I'm healthy, strong. She's part human, but not entirely. She's probably stronger than she looks.

There are rewards for turning traitor. Marta was lucky. Now, there would be no need for deals. Now, the man she married would buy her without bothering to ask.

I can still feel her eyes boring through me, as if the clothes were an illusion. I can feel her hands exploring what she has no permission to take. Even in route to Weyoun, I do not feel safe from her.

She shoves me ahead again, jabbing suddenly with the rifle, first out the door and then down a familiar corridor. There are others in there and I feel safer in the corridor, even if being taken to see Weyoun.

Luther's warning keeps repeating in my mind. As long as he keeps calling me back I'll never belong to my own again. This last time, after Odo . . . And the look, the open leer. . . Carl is very bitter, but he knows about them. What if Weyoun decides I won't cooperate, gives me to the guards? The memories of Carl and his hands are too fresh, but deep inside I don't care anymore. As long as it ends. It shouldn't be too hard to get them to shoot me. But this is the last time he'll steal my life.

Carl's warning that *he* will eventually be done with me, and what comes then, keeps distracting me. With the slimy guard behind me, after the shower, I'm certain I'd rather have them shoot me than still be alive.

But I know she wouldn't kill me. I think of the punishment, the ultimate method of execution meted out to Cassie and Elaine. She would welcome the chance to stop me, and be allowed to do what is already playing in her mind, reduce or remove my own ability to stop her.

With Luther it ended, as much as it can ever end, as a broken man. Is that the only real option I have left other than death?

When Weyoun's door opens I'm escorted into a new world.

There are no Jem'Hadar in sight, no one from the Gamma quadrant races they brought with them. The only people around him, and a fair amount at that, are calties-calties wearing civilian clothing, only the patch on their jackets identifying them as his staff. All of them are neatly dressed, faces smooth, and hair carefully trimmed, even making Sir's staff look sloppy. His office has been divided into separate desks, each with a caltie sitting at it, all personally loyal to *him*.

The Founders must be dead by now. He must be worried that the Jem'Hadar will find out. Perhaps he's making fewer of them now, keeping them isolated and to the outskirts of his empire for his own survival.

The slimy guard taps on a door padd, probably Weyoun's office. "The doctor is here, sir."

"Take him to the lab first. I'm rather busy right now," *he* says, preoccupied. He sounds rushed, harassed by the daily details of life.

Who would have guessed he could carry off the ruse so well? Those around him, traitors to their own races, probably don't care if the Founders are dead or not. They owe their personal loyalty and comfort to Weyoun alone. They owe their own survival to his continuing to rule.

I keep thinking, short of torture and rape, or death, there was one other way out. Could I play pretend with them again, play the game smart, like Luther wanted me to. Could I find a nitch in their world and then destroy them? There are a lot of them. It might be easier to hide if I didn't stand out. I'd have to abandon Ezri, of course. She'd be safer in camp than here given the chances of any of these people surviving the death of Weyoun. But she's strong enough to raise the children now. She doesn't need me anymore.

She'd be better off without me. All I have to do is convince Weyoun I don't care what happens to her, and hope he doesn't force me to prove it. But then there is the choice Carl had to make at the end between a last refusal and his wife in the hands of a monster.

We stop in front of a door, interrupting my thoughts. For the first time, I really look at the place. The building is obviously new, almost reminiscent of something the Federation might have built in its utilitarian efficience. But the security is much more obvious. And there are nothing but special unit guards.

The door to the lab slides open after a double security check, and I'm guided inside. The guards wait outside.

All I want is to leave this room. It's pleasantly warm, but there is a *chill* far colder than the icy morning I left a few hours before.

How dare I think I can pretend to be like these people? This is a research lab, and I'm sure Weyoun plans to add me to its staff. I can not do this. I don't want to know what sort of research they are doing, but doubt I'll be allowed to remain ignorant.

And yet, standing, waiting for it to be over, some part of me is impressed with the place. It is bigger than the one I'd been allowed to use before, with even more technology-a mixture of Dominion and many other cultures.

There are no guards, at least that I can see. But I know better.

This is here to research something very important to Weyoun, even more so than saving the Founders. There are too many people, too many machines, unseen security so intense it shows in the guarded ways the busy staff moves across the room.

Whatever they are doing, to cooperate now would mark me forever. But can I refuse and not condemn my family to hell? If this matters that much to him, *nothing* will be allowed to get in the way.

Then a middle-aged human walks up to me, dressed in rumpled lab coat, his hair tangled and untidy from the way his fingers are twiddling the longer strands. Preoccupied, he looks up as if I am interrupting something important. He offers his hand. "I believe you're to get a tour of the place," he says as if I was like him, with no marks on my hand.

I know this man. He's filled every laboratory since the first was assembled. He does research, making it his life, his purpose. He would have done the same for the Federation, served their goals just as easily as Weyoun's. This room is his life. He has never asked himself why, never considered what might come of the discoveries he makes. Weyoun didn't even have to buy him, just show him the room.

He is as dangerous as the Vorta in his own way. I let him take my hand but can't share the enthusiasm. He doesn't notice. My hand feels soiled everywhere he touched.

I'm getting the quick tour, certain they plan on having another chance for a more detailed one.

"This is the main research bay," he tells me, as we pass by a room full of testing stations. He doesn't stop long enough to see much more. I follow him, impressed despite the hatred inside me. It's a very efficient place. One could do a lot here.

After that, there are a series of isolated labs, and a group of offices. I don't get to see inside. We pass through the small patient care area, hardly stopping as he gestures towards the beds, "For our patients," as he hurries to a special door.

We stop. He looks excited, his eyes full of satisfaction. "Sorry about the quick look, but we don't have a lot of time."

I watch as he enters a code, backed up by his own DNA scan before the door opens. He hasn't even reacted to my silence.

It is clearly a nursery. Instruments sized for small children's bodies lie on a table. There are several small biobeds in a small alcove to the side. In another room, the light dimmed, are what appear to be incubators.

I stand still, just looking around the room. I cannot imagine this man having power over children. He smiles and a cold chill creeps down my spine. I think of Ezri and the children, loved and protected as much as is possible, and this man with his room full of instruments. When I turn him down I may not be able to protect her, but I think Ezri would understand if she saw this place.

His pride is evident as I follow him, slowly, fear and anger mixing and growing inside me. He leads me inside the dimly lit room with the incubators.

Lying in one, sound asleep, is a small baby. Even this young, I can already tell it is a Vorta.

"Meet Weyoun Jr," he says.

Is this what Miles died for, or did this come after? And why an infant? Or do the Vorta grow to maturity as the Jem'Hadar do, growing up in days?

I want to ask, but can't force out the words. I don't want him to notice the blind fury growing inside me. I consider if he would be a worthy target for it, standing there so proud of his betrayal of everything he was.

But Weyoun would be better. I know they'll kill me. Maybe it will be worse than just dying. But I don't care anymore. I force the anger back, make my voice sound calm, interested. "How old is he?" I finally ask.

He smiles again, that creepy smile. "A couple of months old. We tried to duplicate the Dominion cloning process before but couldn't get it to work. Not that we need to in this case. The baby carries the same DNA as the donor. It's a lot easier to alter small children anyway."

The anger retreats, replaced by a dawning sense of horror, an abhorrence of this man and everything he represents. What happened to the "test subjects" that failed? Is the baby Vorta just another "experiment"?

What sort of "alteration" are they planning? Do they want *me* to participate?

It is all I can do to keep my hands off his neck, but I know he does nothing without orders. Weyoun is responsible for this plan, and he should pay. The doctor will pay in his own time.

I can't move. Memories flood my mind, flashes of a time long ago, things hidden so well they hurt all the more. Little Jules holds my father's hand as he leads him into the hospital with the doctors, kin to this man. Eyes wide, he pulls away as the nurses pull his small body into restraints. Sobbing, he begs them to stop, screaming inside for his mother, for rescue from this place.

Then I can feel Jules next to me, staring at the baby, his hand clutched in mine. His little feet scurry behind me, Kukalaka clutched in his other hand, as the doctor taps me on the arm.

It startles me, but he doesn't appear to notice. "We don't want to wake him," he says quietly. Relieved I follow him out of the nursery, past the banks of instruments, and out the door. Jules scampers after me, his hand still locked in mine. He's crying now, scared, his pulse racing.

My host steps past the patient area, Jules keeping close to my leg. After opening the first door, the doctor ushers us inside, indicating a chair. I sit, uneasily, as Jules climbs into my lap, holding on tight and sobbing hysterically, Kukalaka pressed against me.

Some part of me understands this man, lost in the normality of his life, will neither see nor hear Jules. I must appear calm or I'll never get near Weyoun.

Choking out the words, I finally ask, "What do you want of me?"

"You'll have to discuss that with my superior. I'm to brief you on the project."

So cold, dry. A baby is lying in sleep, existing only so he can be tormented by men like this who are incapable of feeling. What would he feel if it was my hands pressing his throat closed, gasping for breath? Is he afraid to die, or is that as immaterial to him as life?

He begins. I hear the words, how they plan to alter the baby's DNA, add abilities the Founder's evidently didn't find important but Weyoun wants anyway. Jules is very quiet now, listening, burying his head in my arms, his sobs silent. For the baby it will not be the same. The ordeal will last a long time. The doctor lays out the plan for the continued torture of this child as if the child's pain was of no importance.

I know differently. I stare at him, unable to pretend anymore. He isn't even looking at me, doesn't notice that I hardly hear him. He is proud of his plan. It blinds him to everything else.

But I remember the voice of the doctor as they bound me, assuring little Jules it would only hurt a little. Jules squirms as little memories, flashes of pain and confusion, fill my mind-injections, muscles caught in spasms that would not stop, nausea so bad I could hold nothing down.

No matter what they offer or threaten, I will not touch the child. Not all the monsters are dead. One of them sits across from me at a table, smiling, pleased with himself.

He shrugs, adding in a friendly tone, "Of course, we may run into some snags. I think he's ready for you now. I do hope to discuss this later."

Stunned, lost in memories I thought I'd banished, I mumble, "yes," to him. If I do not leave now, I'll end up killing him.

Dragging Jules along, too frightened to walk on his own, I escape the room and the monster. He leaves us at the door, the deadly smile still there. Silently, forcing all the outrage to stay back, I follow our original guards.

Burly is distracted, in a hurry. Slimy keeps both hands and eyes to herself, but just the same keeps watching too close. They don't see Jules either.

I still want to kill the doctor, but he can be replaced. Once Weyoun is gone, he won't last very long. I'm sure he won't die gently or easily. I owe it to Jules and the child and all the rest to end the nightmare for everyone.

This time, Weyoun's office is almost empty. He's sent all but a few of his staff away. Sitting at his desk, the guards usher us inside, Jules little running steps barely able to keep up, Kukalaka clutched to his chest, head buried in the bear. He does not climb in my lap this time as I take the chair that's offered, but hides under the desk, rolling himself into a tiny ball.

Weyoun says graciously, "I'm sure Dr. Blevens has explained the project. We were lucky to find him."

I think of Cardassia and the silent tomb it became. Too bad, I think. He deserved to die with the Cardassians, he and all the monsters who helped him.

But I sit on the nearest chair to the door, the furthest from Weyoun, because I don't want him to see how I am barely under control, how little I want to hold back the anger and outrage and pain.

He picks up a padd, reading it to himself. "It's unfortunate that you didn't choose to participate earlier, especially for your friends."

He murdered Miles because I wouldn't work for him, but Miles forgave me. Now I understand why. But I still see the blood, and will keep seeing it until someone has paid. Tomorrow I will probably be dead, but so will his murderer.

He doesn't see. I'm still keeping it back, barely able to stop the timebomb inside me from exploding. But Miles is standing next to me now. He puts his hand on my shoulder, holding me back. 'Not yet,' he says.

Weyoun continues, his voice pleasant with a hint of sincerity. "I trust you've learned it would be better to reconsider. Of course, when you bring your family here, the slave marks will be removed from your hands as well. You'll have our best quarters, your own replicator, all that you need to be comfortable. And no one can harm your wife and children."

Miles keeps pushing me back. 'No, Julian, not yet,' he says. They killed the parents but would give the children everything, would steal them away. 'He'll have them killed if you do,' he says.

But Miles can't stop me anymore. Jules pulls back hiding as far from view as he can. Inside me, a fury so intense I cannot contain it is growing, building to an explosion I cannot stop.

Weyoun is waiting for me to reply, sitting patiently and watching. I want my hands around his throat, his body bloodied and beaten, but there is too much noise in my head to move. My father, staring in disappointment, as I stumbled through school . . . my mother holding me, as I sob, telling me she loves me even if I'm not perfect, hiding her own worry . . . The doctors, with their hypos and tests and the fear and the hurt. In time I marveled at the new things in my head, the abilities I'd never dreamed of, but by then Jules was gone. That I could see . . .

I forgave my father, but he was still wrong. He had no right to decide for Jules. He made a better son, but it was not for him to choose, no more than Weyoun can torment a child to remake himself.

I stand, looking at Weyoun, staring with barely concealed hatred. He still should die, but know why first.

"Why?" I ask, staring at him.

He looks up, preoccupied, missing my anger. "You should understand. The Vorta were made to fill a role, and we did our jobs quite well. But there are qualities we were not permitted to know, things we depended on the Founders for our guidance. They are . . . no longer available to me. I find myself hampered in important decisions by the limitations imposed on me by my nature. I believe the Founders would approve, as I am simply carrying on a legacy in their honor."

He can be open with me because I know the changelings are dead. I saved myself-my family-before by making a deal with him. But there comes a point when you cannot cross the line drawn in the sand. No matter what, like those who perished at the Alamo, I will not step over Travis' line.

He will make the child into the image he wishes for himself, just as my father made sure I would not be the failure he was. Standing in the room, staring at him, the anger and resentment of a lifetime demands release. I set it free, slowly, standing and pacing forward near Weyoun, holding in just enough to give my words a bitter edge. Jules moves out of his hiding place and stands behind me. Miles stands next to me, his hand on my shoulder again. He's looking me in the eyes, angry now. 'Please, Julian, not now. It's not the time. You're going to get them killed.'

Weyoun looks up at me, standing over his desk, caution and surprise passing briefly across his face. "Yes?" he says.

I release years of pain as I light into him, my voice rising. "How dare you claim you have the right to decide what that child, that baby, will be as he grows." The outrage swells as I speak, Jules clutching my hand. The hatred for all Weyoun has done fills me, blinds me to all but him and the child at my side. Standing there, staring into Weyoun's eyes I see amusement as the bitterness grows, filling me. Now, in place of the bear, Jules is holding the baby, cradling him as if to protect him from harm. "You have no more right to use him than my father did. You have no right to torture a child because *you*," I spat out the word, "are not good enough."

I look down at Jules and he has merged with the child, having become one. My father stands before me, trying to speak but I won't let him. I can't bear to hear another excuse, another denial that they killed their only child to make a new one.

With more bitterness than anger now, I spit out the words.

"I don't care if *your* life is a failure. That child has a right to his own, a right to exist *as he is*, without you deciding what that should be. You made him, now you live with it. I will not torment him, no matter how many threats you make or what it costs me in the end."

I realize I am finished. He knows now. I want to kill him but all the emotion is used up, and I just stand, shaking, as he looks me over.

Miles has removed his hand, but not moved. 'You promised. If they die it's your fault.' All I see now is bitterness. He forgave me before. But not this time.

Everything spent-the anger, the hatred, the terror-I do not move as the door opens, do not resist as I'm dragged away from Weyoun. Jules is next to me, holding on to my leg with an iron grip.

"Are you done?" asks Weyoun, cold and unmoved. "You would have been a great asset to the project but I can find others." He is doing something with a padd, looking down at his desk. Abruptly, he holds it up. "I have just issued the order for the deportation of your family, including the four children. They'll be sent to a small mine near Cardassian space. Some of the tunnels are very narrow and low. Children work well there, at least as long as they last. Your wife is short as well. She'll be quite useful for a time."

Not Ezri, not the children I promised to keep alive . . . Unable to move, Jules arms wrapped so tightly around my legs I can't walk, I'm silent, stunned. I knew he'd do it, but he had not yet *issued* the order that will doom my family to a slow, miserable death. Shaking, I find my voice. "Why don't you just execute them and get it over with?"

"Because it would be too fast, because you'd get your way. You are a slave. You have no right to refuse my orders, or you will be punished. Shall I add more names to that list?"

I remember now. He ask that when he killed the others and I let him. Miles steps in front of me, intense disappointment written in his eyes. 'You could have stopped it, stopped yourself. You promised to take care of them.'

I pull away from the guards, stand and face Weyoun. "You can do this," I say, sweeping my hand around the office, "because they are dead now. Because nobody gets in the way."

I feel good, having ceased to keep his secret. But then, in a little while, Ezri and the children will be dead too. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters but revenge.

In a white hot flash of anger, I rip away from the guards, lunging across the distance and the desk he tries to use as a shield. I yank him roughly across the desk, shoving him to the floor. He squirms as my hands close around his neck, thumbs pressing against his throat. He's gasping for air, flailing under me. I don't have much time before they kill me but don't want him to die too easily. He faints, and I let up a little, watching as he starts to gasp for air again. Then I tighten my grip, intending to crush his neck.

Miles stands over me, just watching. 'You should have listened to Sloan,' he says, sadness mixed with anger and satisfaction as I squeeze the life out of Weyoun. 'Play the game smart or your best friend *and* your family die.'

Then . . . then the pain. Footsteps are all around, and my hands let go, Weyoun falling back hard against the floor, his head making a thump. At first, there is noise and numbness and confusion. I'd seen the prods the Breen had used, carried by the current guards. But I hadn't imagined them using them, not like this.

I'm vaguely aware as they drag my limp body off Weyoun, their doctor hurrying past to tend to him. I guess he's still breathing. Another passing thought, I should have killed him the first time, not waited.

They drop me on the floor, roll me on my stomach. I can hear as the probes come near, the little whine they make. Then, jammed against my spine, every muscle tightens and then spasms. My head is buzzing, unable to speak or scream at first, then unable not to. It goes on for an eternity, my body a mass of twitches and jerks I cannot control at all, and white hot pain that drives me back inside myself.

Then . . . nothing.

But in the darkness, Miles is gazing down at me, fading slowly. 'Good bye, Julian.'

As Miles disappears there is nothing but emptiness.

Off in a distance a voice . . . "You know what to do," says one of *his* aides, this one with a peculiar tattoo of an intricate pattern on his arm. Vague awareness of pain, muscles twisted in spasm as suddenly they pull me off the floor, the quick movement making me fade, then there is nothing but blackness.

o0o

The beach is so dark. The rain pelts the sand, the birds silent. The trees thrash around in the storm. Covered with foam, the waves churn in the wind. Above, in the dark sky, the moon is gone, and I'm huddled on the sandbar alone. No, not alone. Jules is here.

I don't come here alone. Where's Ezri?

Then I see her, standing in the water, staring down at me. She's thinking, a mean grin on her face. I don't like it, don't trust it, but she's pulled open my shirt, slides hands against my skin.

She's looking away now, off in the distance as her hands explore my body, or what she can reach of it. She slides them down my chest, fingers playing as they go, teasing. Her hand trails up my trousers, down my stomach, softly tracing across the groin.

I hurt so bad, can barely move. I like the feel of her hand as it touches, tingles. The muscles, tense from the pain, start to relax, the tension ebbs a little, the gradual sensation as she slides her hand down my body.

I need Ezri, and the beach. The waves have calmed, the rain stopped. The trees are still, but the birds do not sing. The moon is still gone, the sky dark. I breath deeper than before as she slides the whole of her hand along my chest, and the pain dims again, muscles relax. I can breath better, move a little.

I allow my arm to stretch, reach out towards her.

She hurts me, pinching hard on sensitive places. She hadn't hurt before, why now? She likes to play rough sometimes. Her nails rake into my skin, pressing hard, dragging, drawing blood.

The muscles that had relaxed are tense again, twitching in reaction to her now rough hands. She pulls back my shirt, but I hunch forward and the shoulders of my clothes fall back into place.

The wind is blowing again, whipping up the water. A spattering of rain falls on me as thunder and a flash of lightening visibly excite her. For a flash it is day, then the darkness returns.

She stops, looks. She is frustrated, annoyed. She gets like this sometimes. I never know who she is, even now, when she insists so firmly. But I don't see Joran in her eyes. She'll be rough, hurting. But she knows how to bring the excitement to a razor's edge, and I let her do what she wants then.

But I hurt now. I don't want the edge. I want the soft trail of her hand, the gentle massage, the shimmering calmness of her fingers as they slide down my body. She doesn't hurt if I say no.

I raise a hand, carefully, with much effort, and try to pull away her hand. She'll understand. She always does.

Suddenly, she pulls away. I hear noise, something being tumbled nearby as she backs into the water.

I still can't move. Even without her help, each hint of movement more than a small change of position sends stabs of pain down my body.

And then, she's back, grasping my arm, sliding hand under my shoulder, shoving me to the side. Before I can move she has both wrists. She's binding them, tight, too tight, throbbing almost as she is done. Abruptly she takes my shoulder and pulls, rolls me over to my back again, but now my bound wrists are underneath, trapped, stabbing into raw nerves along the spine.

I can't move, can't fight the pain. Ezri is looking down, her eyes cold, uncaring at the agony. She smiles, grins, rakes her nails down my chest, pressing against bruises. Why is she hurting me? What have they done to my Ezri?

Did they give her to the same monster that destroyed Ellie? Is Ezri a creature of pain and destruction now, a deadly puppet on a string of torment? She looks down, the wind howling, the rain stirred up in a torrent, as she holds the prod in my face.

"You won't hurt me, I'll make sure of that," and she shoves it into my stomach, slides it down towards legs. It isn't against skin but it doesn't matter. The line of agonizing fire is just as terrible.

She laughs as I cringe from the pain. Do I scream? Does she want me to scream or is it more fun if I don't, like it was to Carl.

She pulls the thing away, the small pulsing terror, and her hand is running down my chest again, teasing, tickling past the clothes. Any touch is agony now. The grin is still there, the leer like Carl, the thing in her hand like Carl had, moving it back, the pain flooding through me.

The wave crashes against the sand and I'm suddenly doubled over in agony so intense it all goes blank, stomach, back, legs, every muscle all tied in knots. Loud roars as the water splashes on me, over me and the muscles let go, still twitching, still tingling. I collapse back on the sand, Ezri standing in the water, my coveralls grasp in her hands, keeping me from falling. She shoves me back, pins my shoulders. I can't stop her, can't control my body at all. The pain from sudden grinding against hard sand, raw and damaged nerves triggered to spasm, almost banishes the beach.

She tosses the probe in the water, moving towards my legs. With every bit of strength I have, I try to pull free as she grasps my ankles, kick her with as much strength as I can. But Jules is in the way, hiding on the end of the sandbar.

I can't stop her as she ties my ankles together, too tight again, some kind of stiff cord that bites deep into the skin.

Jules is crouched on the sandbar, looking at me through two selves, himself and the baby, *his* baby, ready to torture. Jules is trembling, pleading in a small voice, "Make the bad lady go away," he pleads.

Ezri slides closer, leering now, and I try to move away. Jules backs off, almost in the water.

She slides her hands inside my shirt again, this time taking her time as she explores me, scraping and dancing fingers over muscles in tight spasm, teasing where it makes me squirm. She slides out one hand, gliding it over my trousers to my groin, and smiles.

Then she backs away, returning, dripping wet, with the prod. She slides it up my legs, between them, almost to her hand. Flashes of lightning erupt inside me, jolts of agony with muscles so tense I can hardly breath. Her hand feels through the cloth of my coveralls, fingers probing. The seizures ease, the muscles flaccid now, attempts to move only bringing spasms and pain.

She grins at me. She trails her fingers through my beard, down my neck, across my chest, rams the probe into me again.

Another wave roars against the sandbar, smashing against me, every muscle going into spasm again. Carl is here, somewhere in the distance. 'I warned you,' he says. 'Maybe this one likes it if you scream.' Ezri's face floats in front of me again, grinning in anticipation. She slides her hand down my side, past my hips, dancing her fingers between my legs and back up again. Then the pain, sharp, extended, reaching everywhere searing through nerves and muscles already abused. Ezri laughs. Carl splashes his way to the sandbar. 'Scream. She's waiting for you to scream. She likes different games.' I keep staring at Carl, remembering. I can't make a sound. He'd tell if I did. The pain explodes inside me and it all goes black.

All wet. Jules, soaked as well, climbing back on the sandbar, baby still in his arms. "Scared of the bad lady," he says in a little voice.

Ezri looms over me, her hand exploring. She's smiling now, a dangerous smile. Another grin as she tosses the prod away again, but now she has a knife.

She points it at my throat, sliding the blade down my chest, pausing at my waist. I freeze, knowing I can't stop her, seeing the look in her eyes, the hunger. With the coveralls on she can only torment me. But she catches the knife in the fabric of the waist, poking my skin and pulling it away as she is ready to slit open my armor.

Carl is still there, looking amused. 'Guess what? She has permission,' he says. He smiles, his eyes trailing down my body. 'Lucky her.'

She pulls it loose, watching my face, and I try to hide the fear. I want to beg, plead for her to stop, but my swollen jaw won't move and Jules stops me. "Bad lady hurts," he wails.

I can't move. I can't make the pain go away, or stop her as she plays with her knife, not yet drawing blood but teasing. I stare at it as her hand trails up and down my body, waiting for the first stab, the first trace of fire as she cuts too deep.

She plays for an eternity while Carl watches, each scrape of the knife shear agony. He smiles now and then. 'Wish I could help,' he adds, disappointed.

She isn't playing now. Hand sliding down my stomach, resting against my leg, the knife is ready to tear at my clothes. I finally close my eyes, can't watch as she steals everything. Carl is watching, bored. He would probably be more creative, but it doesn't matter much to me. The pain is so bad I almost pass out, want to pass out, want to forget what she's doing, what she intends to do.

If Carl tries to touch me I'll kill him. But I want Ezri to be with me, go to our beach, merge in the rythem of the waves. After this, do I dare let her touch me? Is this some errant personality that I don't know about, one that could come back when I didn't expect it?

Then noise, water churned by a motor, a gruff voice echoing past the trees. "Get your hands off of him, scum." Guard, burly one. Ezri is suddenly yanked backwards, pulled into the water. A solid slap hits her along the cheekbone. She sways from the blow.

She puts away her knife, stashing it somewhere in her clothes. "I was just having some fun. It's just sarke anyway."

"You want him to kill you? We did what we were ordered. He's been disciplined. You didn't just watch him. He's not available." He stares at her, "From now on, leave him alone." He grabs her again, hanging on as she tries to pull away. "I'm not going down with you." Burly hits her again, this time squarely on the jaw with his fist. "See," he says, "I know better. This one's his. We don't touch it." There is a little cut on her cheek, and a trickle of blood draining out.

Carl smirks. 'Lucky you,' he says, bored, walking away. 'Just wait. He'll get tired of playing eventually.'

Jules is crawling next to me, hiding by my side from the bad people and Ezri.

"*He's* still out," Ezri complains.

"Get him untied *now* or I report this." Gruff voice, nervous. "Don't worry about the monitor, he's awake anyway."

Ezri drags herself out of the water, dripping on me as she shoves me on my side, rubbing her jaw. Why is she doing this, hurting me? She cuts the rope with her knife, pokes me deliberately. "Hold it down for me, don't wanna get kicked," she mutters.

"That's your problem," says Burly, and she moves cautiously around me. Gripping my leg, she slits the rope fast and moves away, not pulling it off.

"You don't think you're going to leave that behind, do you?" he asks. Burly snarls at her, "Get in the boat," as she yanks off the rope.

She's still standing in the water and he drags her into the boat after him, looking at me, snarling "Sarki trash."

The boat pulls away. The water starts to calm a little, the thundering of the wind less overpowering. The churning waters around me recede enough I'm dry now.

But I still hurt. I'm afraid to move, afraid it will lead to more convulsions. But the guard is gone, Ezri too. What did they do to her, how did they shatter her again? Lost, all lost.

I collapse on the sandbar, watch as the boat speeds away. Everything hurts, ankles and wrists burning from the rope, hands and feet throbbing as the circulation returns.

Jules crawls next to me, sliding close. He holds me very tight. I am a little surprised that it doesn't hurt.

Drifting, listening in the darkness. The sky is still dark, the trees silent now. The waters are utterly still. Then someone else is here-Luther now, sitting on the side of the sandbar. 'He still wants something. But Carl's right. He'll give up his pet. Then you'll be sorry he did.'

He sits there, staring at the calm waters, watching as they start to churn. He has a family now. He'll have a child in the spring. But nobody will touch him now. I can't say that of my life.

"I tried to kill him," I tell Luther.

'Tried. He didn't die. You'll pay for that.' Then even Luther disappears, standing, splashing his way across the waves until I can't see him anymore.

Ezri's face and the leer and the grin keep flashing in my mind. Have I already paid? Have they twisted her like they did Elaine?

Have I lost Ezri forever?

Then Jules sits up, dives in the water and runs.

Ezri is standing before me, that grin spread across her face, a look of satisfaction in her eyes. She's holding the knife in her hand.

"My turn," she says.

I stare at the spots, so clean along the side of her face Burly had smashed. But there is no bruise, no cut. She lifts the knife, grinning. "You should listen to your friends."

How long has it been? Is Weyoun dead? Do I belong to her now?

She touches me and I can't move. She takes the knife, digs it in my side and jerks it out. She starts to rip away at my clothes, my shield against her. I can feel the blood.

She tears my clothes up the side, then gripping the torn side, down the other, throws the torn part out of her way. There are spots of blood along my legs where she kicked me, but I can't see them well. I can't move at all.

"Mine," she says, laughing.

Ezri liked to get rough. I let her, knowing she could bring the excitement to a razor's edge, to the verge of obsession, but never cross the line. But she hasn't permission. I don't want her now, not this Ezri, what they made of her. But I can't move, I can't stop her as she plays with my body, as she makes it do as she chooses.

The beach is quiet now. She finished, blood all over her from the cuts, the bites that tore the skin. I roll on my side, do not look at her as she bathes in the sea, takes her uniform and dresses.

Jules crawl back as she vanishes. The sea around me is calm, but the water is the color of blood. My body is spent, worn and used, but cannot rest.

I belong to her now.

Lost, I try not to move, try to ignore the pain. Jules crawls closer, carefully sliding against me. I tense, but his touch doesn't hurt.

I'm so tired. The hurting is so bad. But Jules is soothing beside me, a small seed of calm. He's falling asleep, and I let him pull me inside his world where none of the bad people exist.

o0o

Staring out at the dim light, Jules asleep. Muffled noise woke me, the sand quivering, sliding into the sea. Waves stirred in the sudden wind, but the spray of water fades away.

A cell again. Huddled on my side, cold hard floor under me, still dressed in the same clothes they'd given me. My shirt is open, scratches all over my chest. Hurting everywhere, can hardly move. Muscles all tight now, can't make them relax. Can't remember why, but it's over, all done. Nothing left now.

The beach is gone. Where am I? Who did this?

A sudden loud sound as the cell door is shoved open. A red glow brightens grey shadows around me. Why red? The distant sound of an alarm too, and I try to think. The noise that woke me, the floor shaking with a quick, sudden jerk . . . the thud off in the distance. Something is wrong.

*I'm holding Ezri, lying on our bed in our palace of a room before, on the station. We're both asleep, the middle of the night, when we're jarred awake by a loud boom which rattles everything. The lights go out and it's pitch black. That time the explosion was Odo. Who now?*

Jules wakes, slides off my lap, holding his arm as if carrying the baby. He backs away, retreating into the darkness behind me. Breathing in quick, little gasps I stay very still, muscles taunt, wound up like a cobra ready to strike. Head down, I watch the door, anticipating . . .

The woman guard, the one I'd named Slimy, walks inside. I stay very still, not moving legs, arms or head, luring her near.

Ezri's face leering at me, filling my mind. The way Burly smashed her jaw, the cut and bruise on Slimy's face. The way she looks so much like Ezri without the spots.

"It hasn't moved," she comments.

"We checked, now feed him and go." The gruff voice drifts inside from the red haze by the door.

Slimy moves closer, something in her hands. A rope . . . I can see her face as she gets near, closer than before. Her jaw is purple and swollen, eye blackened, and she's missing a few teeth. The leer is so familiar, just like the one Ezri was wearing.

For a flash, I see her grinning at me, standing in the strangely glowing cell. Her spots are lost in the bruised mess of a jaw. Then she's gone and Slimy is back.

I understand. They had just finished with their probe. I was disoriented. I let this *thing* touch me, feel me. I shiver, looking in her eyes, reading her intent as she dangles the rope.

*Not this time,* I tell myself, the pain suddenly gone, adrenalin flooding me, ready to strike. But I keep myself still. Lure her here, let her come to me.

"This wing's dark," says Slimy as she comes close enough I could touch her. The hands are so near, she'll be taken completely by surprise. "Nobody'll know." She leans down, and I can feel her watching.

Burly's very irritated. "We've got the rest of them to feed. It won't be hard to figure out how we got behind considering the last time you pulled this." Burly sounds disgusted now, but wouldn't stop Slimy-or help either.

"You go on then," murmurs Slimy, looming over me now. The hand is on my knee sliding up towards my hip, slowly sliding between my legs.

The water splashes me as the waves churn. Slimy is soaked but doesn't notice, intent on me, playing with the rope in the other hand. I grin to myself, my right hand drawing back, becoming a fist, left hand slipping towards the wrist.

"Get outta there now. You know we have work to do." Burly is annoyed, but Slimy doesn't pay any attention. The boat starts moving away, making waves in the water.

Jules is hiding in the forest this time. He won't be in the way.

Slimy is taken completely by surprise when I snatch the exploring hand with my left, yanking it out of the water, and smash my right, coiled tightly in a fist, into the swollen cheek, cutting it open. Stunned, she drops the rope before landing half in the water on the other edge of the sand.

Gasping, she yells for Burly. "Get him off me!" But it's too late. Burly and the boat are already gone.

She tries to use the sand to push away, but I still have the wrist. She yelps as I pull it back, breathing hard, and I smash my fist into the face again, hitting the nose this time, making it bleed too.

Out of breath, she lands face down on the sandbar, me leaning over her, and then I take the rope.

I remember how she used the prod before, all the tender and terrible places it was shoved, all the screams that made my throat raw. Then later, with Carl watching, when it was worse, when I couldn't scream. She's afraid, especially as I take the rope, slowly slipping it around the neck, tightening it around the throat. I pull it tight and she can't breath, but let go. She collapses, gasping, but I pull it tight again, only this time she can just manage to breath. Flailing, still trying to dislodge my hold, she chokes and collapses. I loosen the rope long enough for her to get her breath and then jerk it tight again, too tight at first, then looser.

She stops moving, resisting. I'm almost sorry. She played with me, tormented me. Don't I get to play back?

Maybe I will. She's tense, nervous as my hand slips under the shirt, pulling it open. I scrape my nails against the skin, pinching a little here and there, where she expects. I like the way she shakes, especially as I move past the shirt. For a moment I wonder if I could do it, repeat what had been done to me. But mostly I just want to find the knife. Then I'll decide what else to do. For now, feeling the delicate smell of her fear, I decide to let her think what she wants.

I conduct the search slowly, sliding my hand against skin, feeling the anticipation build. She's shaking now. I slide my hand down the side, over the buttocks, and now she's fighting for air, trying to gulp panicky breaths while the rope half-strangles her. I even let my hand slide further, inside her thighs, just to push the panic a little further, feel her body freeze as she can't gulp enough air.

So satisfying. I wonder how long I could play before she figures out I'm really not interested. But that is for later. First I have to find the knife.

A suspicious lump, but not the knife. Her prod. I pull it out, slide it down the back. She doesn't move. But I still want the knife. She can escape with the knife.

The knife is hidden somewhere inside her clothes. I grab the collar, sliding my hand under the chest through the wet sand, rubbing the nipples with the wet sand, opening the shirt, pulling her back, locking her arms inside the sleeves.

The waves are churning again, the wind building suddenly to a gust. Her breaths are coming in small gasps now, the pulse racing. Wet with sweat, she twists under me, choking but landing a solid kick, nearly pushing me into the water. But I still hold the rope, my play interrupted, yanking it hard and pulling tight until all of the resistance stops.

She's not moving now. I let go of the rope, tear off the clothes. The water's calm, the wind still. The knife is inside a hidden, inner pocket of the uniform, strapped to the leg. The rope lies limp around the neck, and I watch closely for signs of waking. The clothes are still drifting in the water, half visible in the calm sea where I threw them.

She jerks, suddenly aware. I've slit the rope into pieces, tied the hands behind the back, the feet together.

I tap the spine with the prod, and she jumps, tries to fight and pulls on her wrists. The wind starts to roar, her feet bending back, trying to twist herself to the side and into the water.

Whining loudly, the now activated prod interrupts this attempt to escape. Sliding it along her back, low on the spine, she tries to scream.

But can't. The attempt makes her choke and she doesn't resist as I pull the rope from the neck and then grip the feet, the prod shoved into the spine. But the rope is all bloody, probably from the face, and I just toss it in the sea. I must have pulled a little too tight, damaged something.

The prod makes my hand tingle, brings back too many bad memories and I turn it off. But it's heavy, the handle quite useful as a club . . .

She's still now, breathing in little gasps but still quite dangerous. The trees are swaying in a distant turmoil, but it's very silent now. Gusts of wind stir the sea, but there is no roar. Everything, even Slimy, head covered in blood, is fuzzy now, undefined as things often are in dreams.

But the memories are very different, sharp at first, descending into a miasma of pain with her face right in the middle of it. She used the prod. Burly was the one who made the bruises. But Burly kept his hands to himself.

And Slimy was very creative with the prod. I remember all the details. She laughed when she watched me thrash about, pushing the prod into the places I denied the hand. Maybe Carl was right. Maybe she wanted me to scream.

Too bad she can't scream anymore.

Rolling her to the side, the water swirls around me as I stand next to the sandbar. The trees are moving in an agitated dance, the sky darkened, a silent storm lighting the sky in bright flashes of lightning.

But it is silent, a strange empty kind of silence.

Yanking her onto her back, she pulls away from me as if she's too tired to move more than that. It could be a trick, a lure as I'd used before, but I stare as she looks at me through listless eyes.

She's bleeding to death. The blood had soaked into the sand, but now it trickles down the neck and shoulder from the cut and mangled throat. The rope tore open a large blood vessel. The listless manner is not a ruse. Holding the prod in my hand, I wonder if it's worth it. She's too far gone to notice much of what the prod can do.

But then all I can see is the blood, Miles lying in a pool as his life drained away. He heard my promise, this thing may be dying but it will still hurt enough.

'Don't, Julian. Don't let him win.'

Miles voice fills me, but he's so disappointed. Why?

I see Miles bloody body, Weyoun's limp form as they took me away. The thing in my hand is solid, heavy. I smash it into ribs and chest and the rest of it, the handle slick with blood, hard to hold as I blindly strike back at Slimy and all of them who make it possible for Weyoun and his kind to make us into sarki.

Around me, the water swirls, the trees silently moan, but slower now, tired. The eyes are closed, blood everywhere. The prod is slick and I throw it into the sea. Fading, the sky dingy, the water almost calm, the trees still, she suddenly jerks and an unnatural limp stillness comes over her. She is dead.

She'll keep her hands to herself now.

The gentle motion of the water is soothing, inviting sleep again. But I cannot sleep in a nest of blood. Growing louder, the roar now chasing away everything I'm swept into the sea, dragging me under to a cold salty nothing where I am at peace.

Then, later, a child's hand touching mine. Wet and cold, the sand clean again, the body dragged away in the waves. On the sand bar now, tossed there by the waves, Jules crawls close, melting into me, banishing the wariness and fears and I sleep in peace.

o0o

Little hand, tapping my arm. Child's voice, scared, insistent. Can't make out the words. Nothing but emptiness left. But Jules is still here. I can't abandon him. Reluctantly, I pull away from the comforting blankness and open my eyes.

I'm on the floor, either tossed or fallen this way. Muscles stiff and cold, bruises everywhere, dizzy when I try to sit up. The light is dim, but enough to see the lump of something near the wall, all bloody. I have blood all over me too, my clothes soaked in it, some dried stiff. I look at my hands, stare at the dark, dried smear that darkens my palm. How? I don't remember any of it. Looking at the wet lump, drawing away from it, don't want to remember it either.

I try to pick myself up off the floor, but it's hard. I can't keep my balance. I keep falling when the strength in my arms gives out, hurting more each try. Eventually, rolling on my side and pushing myself up, I manage to sit. Ignoring the pain inside me, I welcome the company as little Jules crawls in my lap, snuggling under my arm. He doesn't notice the blood.

So alone. I don't remember why, but I am certain about it. Still, Jules needs me. I'll keep him safe, keep him near.

A flash, Miles voice in my head. 'Try not to lose him.'

Why is he so disappointed? Why am I so empty?

More noise, the door opening, Jules doesn't move, and I look away. The glimpse of the guard who walks in the door, bowl of food in hand, forces muscles to attention, coiled again, ready to defend. But he stops, shakes his head, and puts the bowl of food by the door.

Burly, I recognize him now, the light bright from the door. Not red now. He walks over to the lump, looking it over. "Didn't remember the food either," he mutters to himself. "Maybe it got

mad."

Another set of footsteps, and I stare, remembering the office, Weyoun, the baby merged in Jules. One of Weyoun's lieutenants has come to sort out the mess, the one with the design on his hands.

He glances at the lump, cautiously avoiding the puddle of blood. Then he comes near me. Jules huddles in my arms. "No big loss. As long as this one is not damaged." He's staring at me, and I look away, flooded by memories each time I see him.

"Take care of him, you know what to do," he'd told Slimy. He was stupid, but he took orders.

Weyoun's man has something in his hand. The sound it makes is so . . . familiar. A tricorder, not the Dominion kind. He scans me, bringing a little flash of horror, remembering when mine was taken, the masses of people, mostly dead now, crowded into the corridor.

Wonder if he was one of them, then. Just *when* he decided to betray everything he was? If I wasn't so tired, if Jules wasn't so scared, he'd join the lump on the floor.

"Get rid of the mess," he orders, gesturing towards the wet lump.

Burly sounds uncertain. "What about him? I took the knife and other stuff he'd gotten. It was just tossed around on the floor. But I wouldn't get too near. I did warn that one, for all the good it did."

Burly is dragging the wet lump out the door, leaving a trail of blood. "Clean that up too," the suit orders. "We'll decide about him. He's not going anywhere." He kicks a piece of strewn clothes towards the door and the messy lump. "He did us a favor anyway. Now we don't have to bother shooting that thing."

Burly has dragged his dead partner out the door, avoiding me. He returns with a mop of sorts, sopping up the blood.

I don't remember killing her, but I know I did it. Maybe Weyoun will understand now that I do mean no, that I'd still kill him given the chance. If he doesn't have me shot, maybe he'll leave me be now.

The suit stands in the light by the door, watching Burly clean up the mess. When he's done, the door shuts and it's almost dark again.

Jules stirs. He's staring at the food, eyes fixed on it. It takes a long time before I can move, before I can keep enough balance, before my legs will obey me when I crawl towards the food.

I don't want it. But Jules is hungry. He doesn't say anything, but I can see the yearning in his eyes as he nears the bowl. I pull the food back towards the wall, too exhausted to move any more, letting the cold metal hold me up. Jules slides next to me, taking the spoon, eating a little and looking at me.

"Finish it, go ahead," I tell him, gently.

He eats quickly, not caring what it is. Children here are just glad to eat. There isn't a drop left in the bowl when he's done.

With a sigh, he falls asleep on my lap. I'm so tired. It was so much work to get off the floor. I hurt so much inside. I just want the nothingness to come again. The cold, hard room fades and Jules and I float in a sea of oblivion where nothing can reach us.

o0o

Curled in a ball, Jules arms around me, they come. Different guards, wasting no time, take my arms, pull me to my feet. Jules never lets go, doesn't leave my side anymore. I still hurt but can move now.

More bowls have been slipped inside the door. I carry Jules when I crawl to them, and when he's sleepy I hold the bowl for him, watch the desperate way he eats. But I never take any of the food.

Food is immaterial now, as is everything but Jules. He is the only reason not to fade away into oblivion. I exist in a meaningless nothing, cold and hurting, too dizzy to move. But Jules must eat, stay alive. I can crawl for him.

"Wish we had a blanket," says one. Filthy, blood soaked, they hesitate to touch me, get their clean uniforms all dirty. But Jules is heavy, and I start to fall. "I'm going to need some help here," he tells the other one. He keeps a grip on my arm so I don't fall but I can't walk like this.

The second guard links arms with me. "You'll wash, but he's not going to fall." They are all business, doing a job. I don't know where we're going and don't care. But I'm sure I'll get there in one piece.

Firmly held between them, we're towed out of the cell.

One of them, the fussy one, checks the time. "We're going to be late," he says.

Hurrying along, I keep stumbling. I can't make my legs work right. Held too firmly to fall, I'll either walk or be dragged. Even walking hurts, but the other would be worse. And they're scaring Jules. I force my legs to stumble ahead as we're hurried down a long corridor, then come to a sudden stop. The next corridor is blocked, and we only enter after a security check.

I'm already exhausted, and might be relieved that we're there so quickly if I could feel trivial things like relief. But the little plaque stops me cold.

Isolation.

It's in Standard, like most of them. The one word sends an icy chill through me, dredges up more old nightmares. The man from Weyoun's office is waiting.

"He's not having you shot for what you did to him, he'll even let you out of there. Count yourself lucky."

He's cold, as are the guards as the door opens and I'm shoved to the floor, pushed in as I crawl inside the box with Jules crowded next to me. Something is on the floor, rations I think, and I gather them the best I can. Jules will be hungry.

Heart pounding, I watch the door slide shut and seal us inside. The top is too low to stand. The sides are too narrow to turn without difficulty, even without Jules. I can't move around at all with him on my lap. As the darkness and silence closes around us, Jules presses against me and takes away the fear.

o0o

Outside, the wind howls, a trace of the dust filtering through the rubble filled top of our hiding place. Ezri is asleep, her arms around the children. Pressed close, keeping away the cold, I stare into the darkness.

The boy is asleep, curled up between us. He will not let Ezri hold him. Above us, blowing about in the icy wind, the rubble of the house that used to stand makes odd noises as it disintegrates into dust. Did the boy live here? Was he hiding when the Martians came and their machine destroyed his world? Or had he wandered for a time, like we did, cold and hungry, before he found the little cellar and a measure of safety.

Listening to sounds, remembering the strange glow of the red weed in the moonlight, I can't banish the memories. London, Sunday afternoon, my office closed for the day except for an emergency at the hospital. The warning of Martians, coming to annihilate us that fell on deaf ears, even as the haggard refugees of the initial attacks drifted into the city. Then the heat ray and the smoke, and running, just running, blindly and with desperation. Those I might have saved the day before fall by the wayside, and I do not even look. They were in the way. The train can only hold so many.

And then the train. Crammed inside, living cargo desperate for a chance to survive somehow as the city burns. No food, the stench terrible in the crowded car, the hope that somehow the train might outrun the Martians. And always, even with the crush, the knowledge that most of them never made it to the train, that most of them died.

But what now? The Martians and their heat ray and the terrible black smoke have destroyed everything. The red weed covers the land, driving out the native plants, chocking the rivers and lakes, starving the survivors. What of the rest of the world? Did they cross the seas, destroy the Americas, and all that lived on the other continents as well? It was such a short way to the continent, they must have gone there too. Else, someone would have come and tried to drive them away.

We are alone, lost in the misery of a cold lifeless world, save the red weed. What becomes of us tomorrow, how will the children live, as pets of the Martians, trained to amuse them? But the boy, he wants to live. He stays with me, never leaving my side I don't even know his name. He doesn't speak. But he has searched the area, showed us the hidden food he'd saved and willingly shared it with everyone. He is ours now, as much as we can save any of them.

I wish the night would end. I wish the sun would rise and the cities with them, the people going about their daily business. I'd like to see an opera, watch the flurry of activity each morning as the servants start the cities day. I'd like to ride in my coach, have a passing conversation with my neighbors, retire to bed with my wife.

But it's gone. The city is in ruins, those who did not escape are dead. The sun will never rise on that world again. The clean bright streets have been scorched and ruined. What will become of the little of humanity that remains?

A noise, a scratching as the dead trees scatter above us. I am so tired, so cold, so hungry. The water in the pipes is drinkable, just so, but for how long?

The boy is awake, stirring in the darkness. He slides closer, taking my hand. He's such a strong boy, so unperturbed by the long night outside. I take comfort in his strength, his need to live. He presses against me, falling asleep again, drawing me into his peaceful world, and the whine of the wind grows so quiet I can sleep.

o0o

Daylight, darkened by dust casts an unearthly light over the odd new landscape. The wind still blows, stirring the dust, giving the sky an orange glow as if a fire burned off in the distance. Our hovel is so crowded, so filthy, that it is a relief to leave even if the wind cuts through to the skin and dust and grit fills lungs and eyes.

We must have food. Without the boy we would have found nothing. The boy is our miracle.

The red weed is everywhere, the ruins of the house nearly obliterated by it now. We crawl out of the small opening, the boy and I through a crown of its tangled stems. Its smell is so odd, so *wrong* and if the boy did not know where to find the food, or the opening to return, we would be lost.

I do not know how he can tell, but I let him.

Ezri and the children stay behind, hiding in the only safety we know. I cannot let the boy go alone. It is almost as if he is a part of me now, a child, but not child-like. He does not join in when the others play. Kara tries to draw him in but he shakes his head.

He looks up, listening, and crawls under the weed away from our hiding place, toward the next pile of the weed. I stay behind him, trying to remain unseen. We hear noises that are not from the wind.

Abruptly, breathing hard in the dusty air, he disappears under a pile of the weed and into buried ruins. I crawl under the red curtain, lying flat on the ground, listening for his return.

He never takes long. There is never much food, but we have something to calm the hunger a little. He has a three dolls, this time, and a stuffed bear which he clutches to himself. Yoshi got a rattle the last trip. We start crawling back, well under the cover of the weed, when he suddenly grabs my hand.

There is light, too bright. A searchlight trails over the ground, a tripod slowly lumbering towards us. He freezes in place, grasping my arm as I crawl by his side.

It is scanning the ground ahead of us, our hiding place. A long claw-like thing emerges, skittering along the top of the red weed, suddenly diving inside.

It pulls away a pile of the branches, and then the rubble underneath.

Stop, my mind screams, though I can't move. A faceless thing is ready to take them, and I must stop it. But the boy holds my arm so firmly I can't leave.

I can see through the weed as it reaches inside, a child held by the leg dragged up into the air. Molly, desperately trying to twist away. She screams as it tosses her into a vat, and I cannot move at all. Then it returns, Kara this time, by an arm, yanking her hard, her scream echoing past the ruins that conceal us.

Another dip and it pulls up Tessie, held by an arm, twisting in panic and filling the air with more screams that I can't stop. The child is tossed in the vat with her sisters, and I stare at the opening as it descends once more.

Then . . . Ezri. The grasping thing has her leg, pulling her up, swinging her as it pulls. She holds Yoshi in her arms. If she drops him, he'll probably die of the fall, if not he'll die a different way. Abruptly, still near the ground, she lets go of him. He falls slowly, gracefully disappearing into at thick pile of the weed. Ezri is dragged up higher and higher, then swung inside the vat with my daughters. Just leave Yoshi, I plead. One survivor. Just one.

It reaches down and pulls his limp body up to join the others. I collapse on the ground, shaking, livid and desperate. The boy never lets go, and I can't break his iron grip on my arm. If I could, I'd find a way to save them.

I do not move as we listen to them feed, the dolls hidden under me, hideous sounds as they drink the living fluids from my family, taking away all that was left. I collapse on the ground, face buried in the dolls, and wish I could join them.

But the boy is still here. He holds my arm, tighter now as I wake, the tripod gone. It's night again and he shares the food but I cannot eat. He's still holding the bear, never letting it go. He motions to go back, where he'd found the food, but I don't care anymore. I will not move. He eats the food, offering some each bite, and I turn my head away.

Then he does a strange thing. He puts the bear in my arms. He lies down next to me, and I feel so strong. Ezri and the rest are gone, taken, dead. He needs me. He will not let me go to them.

It's so cold. I feel him near, an un-natural glow or warmth in his hands, a shield of light surrounding us from the wind. He will protect me.

But I don't want to go on. What is there to live for anymore? He moves closer, his eyes too old for a child. The bear is between us and he's calling, pulling me towards him, giving me his life, his courage to live.

I feel lightheaded as I start to fade, drawn through the conduit of the bear into his being. It's safe inside, warm and good and bright. The air is fresh, the trees whole, the children's voices loud and happy. I smile, and embrace him and the life he holds inside him as my own.

End, Part 4, Chapter 22 of Surrender


	23. Surrender Part 4 Chapter 23

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 4 - Madness

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consential sex. It is not in every chapter or even found frequently but it is there. Be forwarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following books are referenced in this chapter:

War of the Worlds, by H. G. Wells

The Princess Bride, by William Goldman

Chapter 23

Sssssrrrrrrrrooopm!

Kukalaka slides open the gate, and we give a final deep bow of farewell. Raggedy Ann runs up to Kukalaka, holds him tight and kisses him. "Save us from the Martians," she says, tilting her head a little, the yarn braids sliding together.

Mum, her spots pale, takes my hand. "Jules will save us. He is the Avenger."

Raggedy Andy stands back, pulling Raggedy Ann to him. "And Kukalaka will keep him safe," he declares.

Kukalaka swears, resolutely, "I will always save the Avenger."

Mum comes closer and I'm afraid she's going to kiss me. I love my mummy but Jules the Avenger hates to be embarrassed.

She puts something in my hand, my lucky stick. "You forgot this," she says, clasping my hand, but that's all.

I store it in the pocket of my Avenger suit. "You may have saved us, Mummy. This will keep us safe."

"Always keep it with you, Avenger," she says.

She and the dolls part and Miles appears. He lifts the big heavy disassembler and I slip it over my arm. Kukalaka takes his and we wait as the magic dust is poured inside. We climb up the ladder, past the gate and into the darkness.

Jules the Avenger always saves the day. Way off in the distance, the tripod lumbers towards us, not knowing a whole city hides underneath the ground.

We crawl close to the earth, sliding through soft branches of red weed, keeping our dissassemblers low so the glow of the magic dust won't be seen. My suit keeps me warm, and Kukalaka, being a stuffed bear doesn't notice the cold.

The tripod is looking for food. The Martians are getting hungry. We scurry along under the thick branches to the special place. We lure them there with food, and the Avenger and his bear take revenge.

There are not so many of them now. Jules the Avenger gets bored some times. He has to be an ordinary boy. Kukalaka hates just being a stuffed bear and always gets Jules in trouble. Mummy gets this look on her face that means no story that night.

The tripod howls in the wind, and the red leaves rustle around us. Their musty smell is everywhere. Mummy will make me take a bath and *wash* the Avenger suit.

Kukalaka pushes away some big branches, and I slide into the special place. He finger talks to me, pointing at the Martians, and we get ourselves in place.

The disassemblers are ready, the magic dust glowing bright. The tripod dances over the weeds faster now, the food visible.

The sacrifices, the bad ones who were going to run to the Martians and tell, cower in the cage. The Martians come closer, their shadow over us now. The tripod opens, the slimy hand reaching out for the sacrifices, almost touching them.

Kukalaka pulls the cord and the sacrifices fall into their big cage, the one we keep them in when we don't need them.

My disassembler is glowing now, pointing at the tripod. Kukalaka holds his higher, the glow lighting our hiding place. The glow covers us, shields us and I am ready.

I point my finger, and declare loudly, calling on all the magic in the world, "I am Jules the Avenger, and the bad ones will be avenged." My disassembler opens and a stream of magic dust shoots through the air, Kukalaka's as well, and we are shoved flat on the ground under the glow.

A blackness separates us from the destruction, the tripod falling into pieces, the Martians torn limb from alien limb, head and hands and other parts shredded apart. The tripod tears itself to scraps, and the magic dust glows with bits of Martians and Tripod and red weed, gradually fading in silence as the magic is used up.

The pieces fall all around us, on us and we rise slowly as it is done. I shake the bloody hunks of Martian from my suit and the metallic bits fall at my feet. Kukalaka shakes himself and he is clean.

We have saved them again. Bursting with pride, resolute with the rightness of our work, I declare to the world the monsters will always be avenged.

"Jules the Avenger has spoken. Another monster has been destroyed."

We step carefully over the wreckage, and especially the hunks of Martian. The red weed will grow well here, feeding on the blood of the ones who brought it to our world. We will avenge them all until there are none left, and Jules will be bored again.

I climb down the ramp, Kukalaka behind me, to the cheers of the people. But I can only listen to them for a little while. Mum is here and at least she waits until they've had a chance to hail us as heros before she drags me off to home and my bath.

At least she reads us a story and Kukalaka and I dance off to sleep down the yellow brick road.

o0o

Mum is telling us about the Lone Infantryman, the first dreamer who built our world. Alone in his cave hiding from the Martians, he started to dig the first tunnel of the first section of our underground city.

Mum thinks it's a great story. I'd rather be Jules the Avenger. But Jules is tired and sick and his stomach hurts. He just wants to sleep and won't let me out. Kukalaka watches over us both, and lets Jules hold him and even cry on his fur.

I, the Avenger, dwell in my own glory. I am the master of the magic dust. There haven't been any more tripods, but some humans-or something like humans-stole a lot of the cities food. If only Jules would let me out, I'd avenge them too. But he's too hungry to think of me now. All of them are hungry. I live in the glow of the magic dust, but it doesn't work for mere humans.

Even I need something to avenge, some great enemy to defeat. I need the magic dust to glow, the powers to gather, to fully live again. Even magic heros can die when the magic is taken away.

But Mum is here, and Miles. He doesn't come unless we have something to do. All excited, Kukalaka pulls away and Jules wakes up.

We are Jules the Avenger again. No tripods for a long time, but I am ready for whatever waits above the city.

Mum looks worried. "Jules the Avenger is needed again," she says, but not with complete confidence. "It's not a tripod this time. It's people."

Jules the Avenger does not harm his own. Why am I called on now?

"Someone is trying to break into our food supply," says Miles, tired as always. "You have to stop them, Avenger. Otherwise we will starve."

I think of the ones in the cage. They were going to tell the Martians about the city. Would more of our own be so mean to us to take our food?

But Jules must eat, Mummy and Miles and the others I protect as well. I will protect them from whatever bad people come. And the magic dust will glow and make me powerful.

I rise from my bed, taking my suit from Mum. It is dusty and I clean it until it shines. Kukalaka has taken his disassembler and I take mine. We move through the city this time, towards the outer reaches of our place.

I hear the noise before I see it. It's very loud, and we crawl forward slowly, inch by inch, watching as the bad men move among our things, taking crate of stored food after crate, moving them to the outside.

I can feel the disassembler glow, feel its energies move through me. I must release it or it will explode on its own. But there is a problem. The magic dust will eradicate the bad men, but the food will be gone too. My magic won't work here. I crawl forward, slowly, under half-tipped crates and in shadows, the glow of the magic dust always shielded from view. The others will have to stop the ones inside. We will destroy the ship they come from.

Kukalaka squirms past me, sliding past the gate they've opened to load the ship. We slip into the familiar red weed, still growing but with less vigor than before. Half of it is dead, but it is still excellent cover.

She'll wash the suit again. It never feels right after that. And Jules will complain about his bath. I leave during the bath. Avengers don't like them either.

The ship comes into view. The men have been loading our crates so fast. The dust will tear all of it to pieces.

But some will be left. I point my disassembler, as does Kukalaka. The glow is growing, building, needing a release. I point towards the ship. "I am Jules the Avenger. The bad men will be avenged."

The magic dust rises from the disassembler and glides into the small ship. It fills every crevice, every crate they have stolen from us. The white cloud solidifies, begins to swirl. It roars above it, our only shield the dying red Martian weed.

Eventually bits of body begin to rain down. And pieces of crates, scraps of what we'd grown and saved so carefully, now all ruined.

The red weed will grow well here, for a time. But Jules and Mummy and the others can't eat its leaves. Crawling back inside, the adults have stopped the other bad men, and some of them lie dead on the floor. They throw them outside, with the jumbled mess of body and ship and crates. Eventually the intruders are removed, to a cage or the outside, and the gate closes.

Mummy hasn't come. "Jules the Avenger has spoken," I declare, but there is no real victory. "The bad men have been avenged."

Miles takes the heavy disassembler from me. I'm full of energy now, full of life, but the others look at the warehouse, all the empty spaces where the food they need to be full of life was before.

They depended on the Avenger to save them and he has failed.

Mum comes, takes my hand. "You did the best you could, Avenger. Sometimes that is all you can."

I go with her, take off the Avenger suit myself without any help. She pours my bath and I stay with Jules this time, even if I hate baths. Jules is afraid, of being hungry and alone and the bad men coming back. But he need not worry. The Avenger will keep him safe. I will never leave him again.

o0o

The people are stick figures in the weed, a woman and four children. The tripod is coming closer, and they vanish under the leaves. Kukalaka bounds ahead, disassembler in hand.

"Come Avenger, save them!" he bellows.

The Avenger is tired. Jules wants to sleep. But there are people to save. We crawl forward in the weed, underneath until we reach the mound where the woman and children are hiding. Kukalaka will draw the tripod away and we'll hit it from both sides.

The woman looks like Mummy, spots trailing down the side of her face. But she is grateful to find us there.

"Avenger," she declares, "save us as you have saved the rest."

"I shall save them all," I vow. The disassembler is glowing, ready. The tripod spots Kukalaka off to the side and turns. I aim and call on the dust, as the light flies up from the barrels and the tripod becomes a swirl. The pieces of tripod spin and grow smaller and smaller.

"He wants him now," says a smooth voice, one the Avenger knows, one that's bad. The dream fades. A man comes up to Jules, grabs him suddenly and Jules can't get away. Jules is hungry and weak. Even the Avenger isn't so strong right now. But Kukalaka is behind us, with dust-filled disassembler at the ready.

I love that dream. It is our favorite one, when the woman/mother thanks us with a hug.

I'm mad at the men for missing the end of my dream.

We get towed to a room, after a long walk. They make me take a bath. I get clean clothes and slip on the Avenger suit on top of them. Then they drag me along to the next place, to the big bad man.

Kukalaka is ready. The dust is impatient this time. It glows already, lighting the hallway.

We are ushered into a plain, if crowded office. Another man, the evil one, sits at a desk. "Have you considered my offer?" he asks.

I don't talk. I know better than to talk to evil ones. But Kukalaka gives me my disassembler, carefully balancing it on my shoulder. I give him the eye, the one the Avenger fixes on the worst of bad men to focus the magic.

"Not talking, I guess. I thought you'd like to know I've signed an order for your execution. One of your children died in transit, the older ones are still alive. But your wife was injured. She won't last long. You'll be executed the day she dies."

What is he talking about? The Avenger is magic and cannot die. Jules is too little to have children. He's trying to be scary, but the Avenger isn't fooled. Jules is a little scared, but I am there to keep him safe. As long as I am a part of him, he is magic too.

"Your threats do not touch me, evil one," I tell him. "You cannot kill me. I am magic, a fairy creature."

He pauses, impressed with my powers. "Magic? Really, what kind of magic do you have?"

"I will destroy you with the magic dust, swirl you into wet messy pieces."

"Oh, I suppose my staff will have to clean up the mess." He looks me over. "All right, destroy me. Try it."

He is amused. His evil smile makes my anger rise, the dust swirling even before I can call on it. I waste no time. "I am Jules the Avenger. The evil man will be avenged."

The dust swirls out of the disassembler, surrounding him, twirling round and round. But he remains whole. I stare, astonished.

"Maybe I'm magic too," he says. Then he stops. "Jules, is that your name now."

I know not to talk to strangers. But his magic defeated mine. The dust has faded and the floor glows around him at his feet. "I am Jules the Avenger," I say, no real energy. "I save the innocent and destroy the Martians."

"Martians? How interesting, from one of those books you have." He watches me, suddenly interested. "How old are you Jules?"

"Five," I say, "almost six."

"A child. I can't have a child executed." He looks at the big men who dragged us here. "Send him home. I'm rescinding the order. Let them see what happens when you defy big evil magic."

They take a firm hold of Jules, who despite a few struggles stops fighting. Kukalaka takes the disassembler, and we move down another corridor. They stop at a door, and say magic words so it will open. I'm picked up and tossed in the back of a transport, this one a cage. Kukalaka squeezes inside, losing one disassembler. It gets dark after the door is closed.

Kukalaka sits next to me. "I will protect you, Avenger," he declares.

I'm so tired. The glow of the dust did not infuse me enough. Jules is hungry, worried about Mummy, and scared. Kukalaka moves closer and we can feel the thing lift and fly away from the evil one.

o0o

"Be strong, Avenger, we will win." Kukalaka has such big arms. His fur is so soft. The cage is so bumpy but he keeps me safe. We lift and tilt and soar like a bird, or maybe like dinner inside a bird.

The Avenger is still magic, but it's not too strong now. The dust is pale, solid. The bad man took away all its power.

We're flying away from the bad man. But it's so much fun. Even little Jules forgets to be scared for a while and likes to pretend he's a bird.

But he misses his mother. And his father is gone off somewhere. And the Avenger can keep him company, but not much else right now. When there is someone to be saved, a wrong to be avenged, then the dust will come back to life. Kukalaka is guarding the dust, waiting for the time. At least stuffed bears and magic Avengers don't eat-or get sick when they don't have enough to eat.

Then the bird slows, lazily dropping to land. Kukalaka has the disassembler ready, just in case, but Jules is asleep. We hit the ground and start to bounce along, waking him.

But he's excited. He doesn't try to sit up, comfortable in the bears arms, but he smiles. He wants to go home. Maybe Mummy will be there.

It's so scary when Mummy is hiding.

The Avenger cannot understand. The Avenger stays inside, but knows Mum will always be there. Just as long as she doesn't make me take a bath.

The bouncing stops, and the cage is opened. It's later, almost dark. One of the mean men pulls out Jules, carrying him when he doesn't walk, Kukalaka behind us.

But Jules fidgets. He knows where this place is. He's home. He's too excited to let the Avenger out.

Mummy is sitting on her blankets, not looking at the bad men. They drop him at her feet, small forms moving under blankets. Jules is so happy he starts to bawl. "Mummy," he says.

But I can see her face. She cradles him, slowly wrapping her arms around him as he cries out his relief. She isn't lost. "Julian," she says, a mixture of fear and anger in her eyes, as well as love.

Who is Julian?

Jules starts babbling, hardly managing to form the words right. "Mummy, bad men hurt."

Then there is shock in her eyes. The Avenger and Kukalaka wait until Jules will let them near. She touches him tenderly, holding him close. "Mummy won't let them hurt you," she says, but it is so sad.

Jules curls up in her arms, crying until he falls asleep. But the Avenger watches as others come near. A thin man, reddish hair, shaking hands. "How is he?"

"I don't know. He calls me mummy," she says still shaken.

"Be his mother then." He is very sad, shaking more, running away.

"He's an example." A tall man, sandy haired, an angry, scared look in his eyes. "He's what you get when you don't obey them." He wanders off, shaking his head.

A sandy haired woman, carrying a young baby, a blanket slung over her shoulder as she's nursing. "Ezri, I'm sorry about Carl. You know how he is." She glances back at the sandy haired man.

"We'll . . . manage." Mummy is so strong. The Avenger is embarrassed for Jules, though. Avengers don't cry. The Avenger is jealous of Jules. The Avenger needs Mum too.

Kukalaka waits a little ways away.

Jules finally wakes up and it's dark, everyone cuddled under blankets. The Avenger likes the blankets, and the warmth. It was never warm with the bad men.

"Mummy," says the Avenger, looking her in the eyes. "I will save you from the bad men too."

Mummy looks confused, then very sad. Why should she be sad? She's always been so proud of the Avenger.

The Avenger is sleepy. It's so nice to cuddle up to Jules and the others, and mostly to Mummy. It's better to be warm and comfortable and home.

But then, surrounded by comforting blankets, Jules is almost asleep again when an older woman comes to sit next to Mum. She takes her hand. She didn't come and stare, didn't look at all. Mum holds her hand as the woman speaks. "He's alive, Ezri. Don't ask for more, not now. Look what almost happened to you."

"We're here to come back to," Mum says, looking at Jules. "But he's been . . . "

"Hurt. I know. But if he's here, he has a chance to get better."

"There is that." But Mum is so sad.

"Look, we need to check. We bled you."

Mum pauses, looking at Jules. "I know. Not that it matters much." She takes his hand. "I'll do it in a little while." She shifts around under the blankets. "I wonder, maybe it might help," she says, reaching under the matts, pulling out a book.

Jules stirs, looks at Mum. "Mum, a story?" he asks sleepily.

"It's too dark to read," she says. But the other woman nods at her. "Maybe Dorothy can tell you one."

Jules eyes brighten in anticipation, as if he already knows Dorothy. But I forget about the mystery as she tells the story, of a man with a dream who pulls a sword from a stone and becomes a king, and in time brings peace to his land.

I don't know Dorothy, but I can't wait for the next story. I'm too sleepy for one now, and she squeezes Mum's hand and goes to her own blankets.

Jules falls asleep, and Mum holds him as we all rest for the night. This isn't home. This isn't like home. But it's so much better than the place with the bad ones.

o0o

The noise is loud, but most of the people are used to it. Jules isn't scared but sits up, looking confused. Mummy is busy with the other children, dressing herself in warm clothes, and talking with the other big people. The Avenger is so tired. Jules curls up and falls back asleep before breakfast.

Jules eats his breakfast like a feast, with such a huge bowl, and a piece of fruit. Mummy gives him the fruit when he's done with the soup. His tummy will hurt today, but he is happy for the moment.

Then a man in a scary suit comes in, standing next to us.

"He's sick," she says. "He can't even stand up."

The man looks at Jules. "Excused for now. Maybe a week."

Jules isn't asleep anymore. He's hiding under the blanket, eyes wide open, wanting the bad man to go.

The Avenger shares the wish. But the dust is glowing, just a little, still shining when he leaves. The Avenger feels better already.

Mummy sits down next to Jules. "Julian?" she says.

"Whose that, Mummy?" I ask.

She takes a sudden hesitant breath. "Just a name. I missed you."

"Jules the Avenger had work to do," I declare.

"Jules needs to rest now, sleep some more. I expect you to stay in the blankets today. No wandering. You're sick. You have to get well."

The Avenger is too tired to avenge anything right now. If Jules is sick he has to get well. "I'll be good," I tell her.

"Good," she says, but she's worried. "I have to go." She looks towards the other children. "Molly, Kara, keep an eye on him."

They are looking at me now, the two girls attentive and solemn. "Yes, mother," they say, some great sadness in their eyes. They aren't much older than Jules. But they don't look like children.

The smaller girl, tousled blonde hair tangled into a mess, stares at him from under a blanket. "Dada," she says.

Who does she mean? Mum is alone, just her and the children.

Jules is almost asleep when another woman comes up to Mummy, her blanket held around a swelling belly. "Don't worry about him, Ezri. I'll take care of him."

"Are you sure you can, your feeling a bit better?" says Mummy, concerned.

"I'll take care of him. I've . . . done this before." She and Mummy share a nod, and Mummy ruffles my hair. "Jules, Aunt Nancy is going to take care of you. Do what she says, and get lots of rest."

Aunt Nancy smiles, a very nice smile. I think I like Aunt Nancy. I know why she's Mummy's friend.

"Would you like me to read you a story, one that will make it easier to forget you're sick?" she asks with a twinkle in her eye.

The Avenger loves stories. This one is the best, with pirates, true love, adventure, torture, honor and heroes. The Avenger almost forgets that the dust is still barely bright. I'm too busy waiting as Buttercup is dragged up the cliff, as the Dread Pirate Roberts defeats the man with the sword, the poison and the words.

I'm much to interested in the six fingered man. Every world has something to avenge.

I want Aunt Nancy to read all day, but Jules is too sleepy. "Time for a nap, Jules."

He's already half asleep, and taking me with him. The dust is still so pale, I haven't the strength to rise. I let sleep take us both. But just as I fade I want to go back to the steep mountains and the Princess. I am the Avenger. This place and the bad people who make Mummy go are not my home.

o0o

"Mummy, why do you have to go?" I ask.

"No choice, Jules. You look a lot better."

I still want to know why Mummy and I are here, but she won't tell me. "Can we go home now?"

She stares ahead. "Someday," she says, sad, looking away. "You're too sick to go anywhere anyway. You've got to get your rest and eat and listen to Aunt Nancy.

"She's reading us a book." Mummy gazes back at her. "It's a neat book with pirates and this mean Prince. I can't wait for them to get the prince."

"That would be nice," she says softly, then takes our empty bowls. "Be good for me. Nancy said you'd walked around a little yesterday."

"A little. I got real tired." I wish the dust would brighten. I have hardly the energy to stand, and Jules is just getting over his fever.

"Try again today," she says as Aunt Nancy, with Luther behind her, kneels besides me.

"I have something for you," says Aunt Nancy.

Jules snatches it from her hand. "Kukalaka. I found you," he says, nearly in tears.

The Avenger says nothing, just lets him cry out his relief. It's a rag doll. He clutches it to his chest.

"Mummy, Kukalaka," he says, holding out the doll. He's suddenly bursting with joy and relief and even Mummy having to go doesn't bother him.

"I thought you'd find him," says Mummy. "Now, hold onto him tight so he doesn't get lost again."

But Jules is too happy to worry about anything right now. I let him have his moment, believe this doll is his bear.

After all, the real Kukalaka is sitting by the door, guarding the disassembler and Jules and I-and Mummy and the rest too. No bad men have come near this morning and he's bored.

There's no room for him in the blankets. But I wish he'd at least listen to the story.

Jules finally lets me talk, watching as Mummy leaves with the rest. Aunt Nancy hugs Luther, and he pats her tummy. Then she sits next to us. My sisters are still in bed too, waiting. My little brother is smacking his toys together under his blanket.

"Can you read more of the story?" I ask, as excited over it as Jules was his bear.

I notice that Kukalaka has come closer, sitting just behind me. He's waiting for the story too.

"Certainly, how are you doing today?" I love Aunt Nancy. She's so cheerful even if everybody else is all sad.

"I'm good. Does the Prince get killed this time?" I ask, waiting for the moment.

"I guess we'll have to see," she says.

We all grow terribly silent as Westley dies when the Prince rushes the Count. That scream . . . I know that scream. I don't know where I've heard it but I have. Jules is too scared to fall asleep, even if he's sleepy.

Kukalaka has inched closer and closer, and even my sisters and some of the other children have come to listen. Instead of just me and Jules, we have a crowd.

Aunt Nancy does the accents as our hero's take Westley to Miracle Max, who makes a magic pill that will make him live again. It worries us terribly that it might not last.

"Will he die anyway?" I ask.

"I guess we'll have to keep reading until we all find out," she says, and some of the children give me an odd look. I think they've heard the story before but they like it anyway.

Westley is too weak to do much while they storm the castle. Being recently dead has drained him a lot. But we don't make a sound as she reads, chasing after Inego and the others in our dreams.

They have to find the Prince. They have to avenge him. Bad men always get avenged by the good guys.

She keep reading though everyone is tired. Her voice is getting quiet, dragging a little here and there, but we don't care.

I watch Kukalaka as Inego confronts the six-fingered man. "My name is Inego Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

I can feel the magic building around us, the shimmering so bright it lights the room. The disassembler starts to glow, but in greens and blues. As Inego slides his blade into his father's killer, flashes of red fill the dust, and the glow around us is like sunshine.

Now it's the Princes turn. Kukalaka slides forward, our eyes fixed on the book.

Aunt Nancy is reading very softly now. Westley has Buttercup tie the monster to a chair, and tells him of all the terrible things he'll do, how every man, woman and child will run in horror from his mutilated form.

I can see it all in my head as he tells the Prince.

And then he doesn't do it. He lets him go. He lets him live. He rides away on his white horse with Buttercup and Inego and the Giant and lets him go on to live with his disgrace.

Doesn't he know that Princes can't be trusted, that they'll always come back and disgrace won't bother him at all. Doesn't he know that the Prince will find him, keep making his life a

misery as long as the Prince lives?

"He doesn't kill him?" I ask.

Aunt Nancy is so tired. She needs to rest. Jules is tired too, and wants to sleep.

"He knew he failed. He didn't challenge the Dread Pirate Roberts, but dropped his sword. He'd already proven he was a coward." She smiles, closing up the book. "It's just a story. Now I want everybody to get a nap."

Jules is still holding his Kukalaka close, and I suppose I'm tired too. But I'm so mad, and frustrated. The Prince was supposed to *die*. He didn't pay. I am the Avenger. Bad men always pay.

It's so bright around us, even with the others drifting back to their own blankets. Kukalaka, my Protector, stands very suddenly, looking around confused.

Abruptly, we aren't in the dismal room.

The arched door of the Prince's castle rises around us, Kukalaka and me, this time with only one disassembler, its magic dust glowing dark blues and greens, swirling endlessly as if caught in a torrent of energy.

I'm so strong now. I can feel the way my hands tingle as I allow him to place it on my arm.

I watch while the white horses pound away, taking the Princess and the Pirates, new and retired, one last horse groaning under the giant's weight. The evil count is revenged already, but I know about Princes. They aren't to be trusted. Perhaps he will live a miserable life, knowing how he failed, but he'll just make everyone else miserable too.

We go to Buttercups suite.

I wait by the door, the Prince still looking about Buttercups room. The dust is excited, glowing, ready to burst out of its holder. Kukalaka steps forward and pushes open the door.

He's sitting on her bed, looking at her picture. He doesn't look worried at all. He'll find her again, I'm sure. "Florin will still pay," he says. He's still going to start his war, too.

Or so he thinks. He looks up, seeing Kukalaka and I just inside the door.

"What's this, some joke?" He puts down the picture, standing and stretching. "I've got work to do." Impatiently signaling with his hand, he frowns. "Out of my way."

I stand my ground. His little pixy ears and violet eyes look angry, and I watch as the dust swirls above me in the chamber.

"Not now. I am Jules the Avenger. I stop evil and evil men. I will end your terrible reign and you will pay for the zoo of death and all the rest of the bad you've done."

"That was Rugen's" he says. "Kept him happy. What is this, a boy and a big stuffed bear trying to *threaten* me?"

Kukalaka puffs himself up, staring down the evil one. I hold forth the disassembler, the dust swirling inside in blues and greens with flashes of red.

The magic is different here, but there is still magic.

"I will destroy your evil with my dust," I declare.

He pulls out his sword, having retrieved it before. It's long and sharp, but as it approaches the disassembler the red flashes grow stronger.

"Dust?" he says, tapping the disassembler with the point of the sword.

The red flashes concentrate, and a quiver of energy glides up the sword. With great surprise, he lets go and it clatters to the ground.

He looks alarmed. "I let them go. Without the death of my beloved wife a war with Florin will be difficult. And you *ruined* my sword."

A coward. But one that lies. He'll find her again, not leave her be. He'll find another Ruggin to start more wars. I am the Avenger. I must avenge.

The door opens, and several of his guards, looking as they nearly lost the battle, push themselves inside. "No sign of them now, but we'll pick them up past the river," comes the report.

"You play games with them. Lie to them. You will not change."

"I'm a Prince, evil at that. What else do you expect. They made me like this."

I look into the violet eyes, stare at the elegant ears. In a way he's right. But Westley and the Princess deserve some peace.

He's getting impatient. "Get these creatures out of my way," he tells the guards.

They reach for us, but I'm strong now. I slip out of their grasp, extending the disassembler, and flashes of red fire fill the room. The guards instantly crumple into dust. The prince, lit by a red glow all around him, cowers inside it as he shrinks into a lump of amber goo and hardens, leaving behind only a sticky greyish powder.

Watching, I'm astonished. Except for the pile of powder that was the Prince, the room is the same. Nothing, even the remains of the food on the table have been touched.

If only I'd known this magic before, with our own pirates. I could have made them into dust, but not starved our people.

I like the magic in this place.

But what I really want is to go home, take Mummy back to the shelter with my friends, see if the red weed is gone, start over again.

Somehow, there has to be a way to do that. But where am I? Mummy is here and knows these people. Jules does too, in his own way. But it's not home.

The lights fade, the walls vanish and I'm back in the same blanket, except Mummy has come back and is handing me another bowl. Jules wakes instantly, and the food disappears quickly. Then he hugs his mother and goes back to sleep.

He's still holding the doll. Mummy is cold and tired and crawls inside the covers with him. I fall into sleep myself. I don't know why I'm here. But at least when I sleep I can go home for a while.

o0o

The noise is too loud, and too early. I watch as the door of this tomb slides open and bad men come.

"All the children here," we're told. "At least this tall," he corrects.

Children start pulling themselves out from under their warm blankets, standing near the bad men near the door. Yoshi stays behind, but Molly and Kara go. Tessie starts to go but is waved back. I'm ready to but Mummy says no.

Another bad man, dressed all neat, walks inside. He looks them over, pointing at all the older, taller children. Molly and Kara remain when he sends the little ones away.

"This should be enough. Take them to Warehouse 14. I'll have plenty for them to do."

I just watch, eyes wide. Molly and Kara stumble back, crawling under the blankets. Neither of them look up.

I hate this place. I just want to go home. Why won't Mummy let us go home now?

The food comes, Jules grabbing his bowl and eats as fast as he can. Mummy holds the girls, kissing them while she gets them dressed. "It will be okay, and it's usually warm inside. It's not forever."

But her eyes are sad. Molly and Kara don't want to go with the bad men. But the magic isn't strong enough for all of them, not yet.

I am wrapped up in the extra blankets, still not well, and the room is so empty when they go, just Aunt Nancy and a few others and the little children. Yoshi comes closer, sitting very near and bouncing around his toys. He babbles nonsense words as he plays.

"Would you like me to read to you?" asks Aunt Nancy, sitting next to us.

Of course, the Avenger would like a story. But it is so much better with all the others. It wouldn't be the same this way. "It's kind of lonely today. The others would miss the story."

"If you'd like," she smiles at me. But she's tired. And something else is wrong.

"The Avenger should help these children," I declare. "If only the Avenger could right now."

"Hmmm. Maybe you could tell me a story. Tell me about the Avenger. What does he do?"

I shrug. Mummy never ask many details. She just cleaned up the mess with the suit. "I avenge the bad men. I saved my people from the Martians."

She's not really listening, but looks impressed. "That's quite an accomplishment," she says. "You must be a hero."

"No," I tell her. "I was the hero until the Martians stopped coming. Then the pirates tried to steal our food and my magic stopped them, but . . . we lost most of the food too. Everybody was hungry and I guess they blamed me."

"I bet they didn't," she says, now paying closer attention. "You think they did because they were hurting, being hungry, but they knew you did what you could. Without you the pirates could have taken it all."

"They almost did. My magic didn't work, or not the right way. My disassembler ruined the food too. So I betrayed them."

I don't like to think of that. But it was after that that the bad men took me and Mummy away. How were the bad men there? Why did they take us here, to this awful place?

"Sometimes it's easy to blame yourself too much. They'll forgive you for making a mistake, if it was even a mistake. I know it must be very hard to be an Avenger, but don't be so hard on yourself."

"It was my duty to save them, not make them hungry. I destroyed the food with my magic, not the bad men. Mummy loves me, she'd forgive. But the rest of them, they gave me away. I think. Or the bad men came back and they didn't want me to save them this time."

"You'll make it better. You're the Avenger, right? You'll find a better way." She sounds almost like Mummy.

"I just want to go home, even if they don't like me. I just want Mummy and I to go home." I'm so tired of this place. I love Aunt Nancy, but she's sick. The bad men took away most of the children today. This is a bad place. I want to leave. I'm tired of being the Avenger right now.

She pretends not to notice the tears running down my cheeks. "Home is a good place to be. Sometimes all you have of home is your family, and it's good to at least be with them. You have your mother."

What happens to my "sisters" and little Yoshi when we go? I'm worried now, worried for all of them. Mummy is keeping them safe, too, just like I protected her.

"Can you go home?" I ask.

She turns away and all the false cheer vanishes. "We don't have a home. This is all we have."

"Maybe you could come with me," I suggest, trying to comfort her.

"That wouldn't work out." She looks away, tears now covering her own face. Her hand is on her belly, and I think of the baby inside that will only have this.

I've made her cry. Avengers don't make the people they love cry either. "I'm a bad Avenger," I say.

"No, just a scared one. Jules, I've got to lie down. I don't feel well."

She's pale. I watch as she makes her way past other blankets, keeping to the pathway between. I hope she's all right. Yoshi is cold and slides in next to me and Kukalaka, falling asleep.

I stare at the dingy room for a time, and then the glow comes again. It's different, softer, and it pulls me deep inside. The trees grow around me. The sounds of the animals fill my ears.

Buttercup is washing her face in a pool of water when a huge RAUS suddenly attacks her. She jumps down and tries to run but it is too fast. My disassembler is glowing dark greens and blues, and with her scream the red flashes begin, stronger the closer it gets to the RAUS.

It flashes bright red, little sparkles of ruby lightening everywhere. Then, without even needing invoking, the red fire sweeps from inside to the giant rat. He twists, caught in a sudden storm, Buttercup underneath. But the red mist never touches her. It shrinks the RAUS to a smaller thing, which explodes into wet messy pieces. As the red fades, they land on the Princess, mostly on her hair.

The Man in Black, his sword at ready, is impressed. "Thank you, Avenger. But it did leave a mess."

Buttercup is picking pieces of smashed RAUS off her dress, fortunately the same tone of red, but her hair is a disaster. She's looking at both of us, dismayed. "I need to wash my hair now," she mutters.

The Man in Black is looking at my disassembler. "May I examine your weapon?" he asks, curious. "You may hold my sword."

I know the story of the six-fingered man and understand the great honor I have been granted. As he takes my disassembler I hoist his sword.

It is heavy. The elegant handle is too small for my little hand, but I tense every muscle, every fiber of my being alert to keep it from falling. I can see the razor sharp edge glisten in the muted light.

But I feel the magic, the power of the sword. It is an instrument of vengeance. Its will and skill has grown with every kill. The Man in Black is invincible when he avenges.

He hoists the disassembler high in the air. It sparkles with blue and green swirls, bright flashes of light. Then he pulls back the mask covering his head and face, ruffling his dark hair.

"I dinna understand how Westley can stand this thing," he says to himself. Then looking up towards the green swirls, he declares, "This is a fine weapon. Though a bit unbalanced to hold."

"Not as fine as this," I add. It can feel his pride, and a shimmer flows through my hand. "Nor does it have the power."

"My father was a master." Inego speaks with respect. "He has been revenged but there will never be another like him."

I can feel the pain inside him through the sword, still raw even after the Count's death. Father wore that look before he vanished into the red weed one day and didn't return. Mummy still awaits him, but the red weed is dead now, my father gone with it.

Buttercup is still picking at her hair. "When is Westley going to get back?" she whines. We ignore her again.

He had gone with Kukalaka and Fezzik to arrange for his own retirement as the Dread Pirate Roberts, leaving us to safeguard Buttercup in the fireswamp. She is a beautiful Princess. I hope he finds that enough.

Inego exchanges weapons with me. I still have the power of the sword flowing within, and when I take the disassembler the magic dust glows a sudden bright blue/green and in a flash I understand.

This is new magic, different magic. The touch of the sword has taught me its secrets. My disassembler is changed now, filled with a special magic from this place.

Inego puts away his sword and tries on the mask again. "I think it is too small," he says, removing it.

"I knew someone who could have fit it perfectly." I don't know what place the face comes from, but it is grey and scaly, dark hair combed back carefully, and the eyes full of challenge. I don't know what this being was, but I know he is gone.

He was a friend of my father's. The magic helps me remember. Some day it will help me avenge him too.

Inego stashes the mask around the hilt of his sword. "When I do reach my new ship, I'll need officers. Would you like to work for the future Dread Pirate Roberts? I hear you can get very rich."

Buttercup interrupts the conversation again, this time to complain about her hair as she tries to pull out clumps of drying RAUS. But I hardly hear her either.

For now, I know why I'm here. I know why Jules and Kukalaka and Mother and I have been brought here. It was to learn this new magic. I can avenge the pirates of our world without damaging my own now. I can truly save them. No more will the dust destroy all it touches, only that which is evil. It is time to go home.

But Inego is waiting. "I must say no. It is time for me to return home, for my own destiny."

He watches the disassembler as it glows in beautiful swirls of color. "Yes, just as I knew what I must do."

We reflect on the colors while Buttercup tries to wash out the mess, getting herself sopping wet and ruining the water. But Westley and the others return, Buttercup moving towards him.

He slides out of her grasp. Inego explains about the RAUS, and he bows to me. "You have served us well," says Westley, "But I see it is time for you to go." He bows to Kukalaka who tries to return the bow, but just stumbles a bit. "Farewell," he says, as the magic glow grows pale and I am back in the bad place, still wrapped in blankets. Mummy has a bowl for me.

"You have to work tomorrow," she says, tired. "You'll be going with Luther. Eat now, and get all the rest you can."

The blue/green glow is still there, the disassembler casting a faint light, but all the brightness has faded. The Avenger isn't afraid of helping, doing chores, but these men aren't talking about chores. Molly and Kara are eating, slowly, but look so tired. I don't want to be part of this world, with its hard rules. I want to go home to my ruined world of dead red weed and take my chances.

But Mummy won't tell me how. She is too tired at night to talk like she used to. She's too sad. I finish my food, eat my fruit, and crawl under the blanket again, holding the disassembler. Maybe the dust will know the way home.

o0o

Jules is very scared, but I tell him we are magic. The bad ones can't hurt us. But it doesn't help much as we follow the guards in the cold morning. Luther is in front, keeping his eyes on the people around him. He is dressed in warm clothes, but his hands still shake. He's afraid of the bad men. Someone hurt him very much.

Nobody seems to notice Kukalaka walking next to us, the disassembler in hand. It glows a dark blue/green with flashes of red. Jules watches him now and again, as he tries to keep up with the adults.

He's still not really well. But he's gotten all the time he's going to to get better.

I want to go home. I want Mummy to say it's time. The magic is ready. Why are we still here?

They stop in front of a big door, which slides open very quietly. We go inside. There are big barrels of some kind of grain, a chute to load them into a wheelbarrow of sorts, and storage bins built into the walls. The doors close, leaving Luther, Jules, Kukalaka and I inside.

Luther shakes his head, as if to clear it. "Ok, kid. I'll load the barrels. You just steady them under the chutes."

He moves the wheel barrel under the first chute, and has me hold it still. Then he climbs up a ladder on the side and starts to shovel the grain inside. But it's heavy. I'm not real steady. I slip and some of it spills.

"Get this cleaned up, put it in the barrel and I mean all of it. If they find any of it spilled you'll lose your dinner. We have to get this done before we get any more."

There is so much of it. I crawl around the floor, the barrow jammed under the chute, while he works. Sometimes it spills and he makes me pick up every grain. I try to help with the wheel barrow, but it's too tall.

Hours go by. I'm hungry, I need to nap, and it's boring cleaning up the floor over and over. But Luther is worse. He's shaking badly by the time we fill the walls. He doesn't talk to me at all except to tell me where things spilled.

When we're done I know why Molly and Kara were so tired. I just want to go back and let Jules eat and sleep. But Luther pushes a button, the door sliding open. The barrels are empty and the floor is clean. The bins in the wall are sealed. But Luther is very tense.

It's getting dark. He pulls me back inside, standing behind the door. All the hesitation and shaking is gone. I can tell how scared he is.

"Listen, kid. This is important. You do just what I say. Don't make a sound. We're going to be late if we go the regular way, so I'm using a shortcut. We aren't supposed to be there, so don't make any noise." He stares me in the eyes. "Get it?"

Worried, I nod. But Kukalaka will protect us if need be. Then Kukalaka gives me the disassembler. I am the Avenger, but I can protect too.

We slide inside a fence, and past a small gate. Luther is tense, hurried. I try to keep up, but it's hard.

Then I see it. Two men, guards, and a prisoner. The prisoner is stumbling along, his face all bloody. The blood isn't red, and he isn't like us, but here that doesn't matter. The bad men drag him along and he falls.

I am the Avenger. I must avenge. The dust is flashing red, impatient.

Luther stops, pulling me to the ground. His attention is on the men, as they drag the man back to his feet and hit him again, hard, in the face. He falls, not moving.

"Is it dead?" asks one of them.

The other bends over and checks. "Not yet. He's going to a holding cell. We can toss the body in the morning."

I sit up, aiming the disassembler. They will cease to hurt and kill forever.

Then, abruptly, Luther yanks me flat again. The alarm in his manner stops me from moving. I freeze as they start to drag the now unconscious man away.

Luther is hardly breathing as they come near us. The disassembler is charged and ready. It would be the perfect chance. But something in Luther's eyes stops me.

We don't move until they are gone. Then, slowly, we crawl away. We slide in the building at the end of the women, caught up in the crowd.

Luther collapses on his blankets, while I find Mummy. But she goes to Aunt Nancy first.

"Stay here," she tells me, her voice worried.

I am handed a bowl, and Jules wouldn't let me do anything else but eat.

When the bowls are collected and it's dark, I'm tired and worn. I just want to sleep, go home to the red weed and freedom. But my sisters have been sent away. Mother and Aunt Nancy and Luther are all around me, and he's mad now.

"Just what do you think you were doing?" he asks.

"I was going to avenge what they were doing to that man." I stare him in the eye. "I am the Avenger. It is what I do."

He slaps me, hard. It hurts and I expect Mummy to stop him, but she doesn't. "Do you have any idea what would have happened if we'd been found there? Do you know what it's like to be locked up in a little box until they get around to shooting you. They don't waste any food on you either. Why should they since you're going to die anyway."

Little flashes of panic hit me, tight little rooms and nightmares. But I am the Avenger, and he is wrong. "They were doing bad things. I could have stopped them." I still stare him in the eyes.

Then, another slap, harder this time. "How do you think you were going to do that?"

"With my disassembler. I have magic dust. It was ready." I am calm. He is still angry, ready to hit me again.

But Aunt Nancy stops him. Mummy takes my hand, looks me in the eye, her voice hard. "All they had to do was find you there. They'd kill you and deport us. You shouldn't have been there, but I *told* you to listen to Luther, do what he said. Didn't I?"

"I had to avenge them," I try to say, Jules too scared to comfort now. Tears are running down my cheeks, and my voice is not so strong.

"Who?" demands Luther, keeping his distance. "You'll get all of us killed if you're not careful. I don't care if you're living in some delusion. I have a wife and she's going to have a baby. It's not going to be in some hellhole they sent her because of you."

His tone is slow, threatening.

Jules can't take it anymore. "Mummy, I didn't want to." He's sobbing now. "He made me."

I retire from the conversation for now while Mummy comforts Jules. Luther stomps back to his blankets and Nancy goes with him. My sisters come back. I stare at the door, wishing my magic could open it, wishing I could go and find the men and avenge them myself.

Finally, Jules is calmed and forgiven. He tearfully promises Luther never to disobey again. Maybe that would be better. Maybe he could live with this easier than I could.

But I can't leave it at that. There is too much anger. The dust keeps flashing red. I take over from Jules and sit up, staring them down.

I keep my voice calm. "What do you think you're doing, letting them use you? Do you care about your children? Do you want them to grow up like this?"

The sandy-haired man named Carl comes forward. "We'd like them to grow up. You make trouble and they won't even get to do that." He stomps away, bitterness filling his face.

Nobody has much else to say. "You can't let them do this, you have to fight them."

Aunt Nancy comes to me. She takes my hand. "People do. But what good is daring them to kill you. That's all you would have done today. There's ways, but not that."

They want to go on in this place. I don't care. I leave Jules, sitting with Kukalaka as he holds his mum, crying again. He can live with this and his fears. I'll watch from the distance. If I can't go home, then I'll wait in the shadows for now.

Jules slides under the covers, pale and exhausted. I hold my weapon, waiting for the day I leave this place. As Jules falls asleep, I go with him, and dream of home again.

o0o

I still follow them as Luther takes Jules to work. I have to, somehow, though nobody here is interested in my avenging anything. Luther is patient with him. Jules tries to help, doing what he's told slowly and exactly, and stopping when he runs out of instructions. Mostly they work the grain shipments. After a little while, Luther tells him to play with his bear in the corner and Luther does all the work.

Since I . . . left . . . Jules doesn't talk anymore. Or more like he doesn't talk to them, except mum sometimes. But the bear talks to him, and he carries on a conversation in his own child-language with it.

Since he isn't a part of me now, I can't understand his language.

Kukalaka watches protectively when I'm sleeping. We trade off. Someday this torment will end and we'll go home, but for now we have to make sure Jules can go with us. He doesn't know, doesn't remember, but he belongs there, not here. I'm thinking Mummy isn't just Mummy, because the other children are so used to her. Maybe she's the same mother, in different places. I don't know. I haven't read the books about that yet. They are at home.

There isn't much here. When they win the liberation they all dream about there won't be much more, but we'll be gone then.

I watch out for Jules and Mummy. The rest of them have made it clear they don't want my help. The Avenger doesn't intrude where he isn't wanted.

Luther makes sure not to take him where he isn't supposed to be. If he did *I* might avenge him myself. Jules is too scared of the guards to make any trouble. Of course, so is Luther.

I used to care what happened. I don't anymore, since he slapped me.

Mummy is sad here, but she cuddles little Jules, talks to the bear when he tells her things Jules doesn't anymore, and generally takes care of him. Or does the best she can. Everybody says that here.

Aunt Nancy is sick. She rests all the time now. Her belly is bigger than it was, too big for her to be sick. Or that's what Mummy says. She keeps looking at Jules when she says it, like he could help. Maybe she's wishing he had the chance.

I go on. I dream of home. Sometimes I visit Westley and Buttercup, sail with Inego, or try to join in with their own stories. But it's not real. None of it's real but home.

I just want to go home, even if the pirates won or the Martians have come back. I just need for life to mean something again.

o0o

The Avenger is bored. Yesterday morning, Jules tripped over a rock hidden in the snow and wrenched his ankle. But he was excused from work for a few days, until he can stand on it. He's lying in his blankets, building stick houses with his little treasure of sticks and rocks, then letting Kukalaka knock it down. Aunt Nancy is sick and he doesn't play with the other children.

I have nothing to do. Kukalaka and I still stand watch, but locked inside this tomb there isn't even anything to excite the dust, to keep me strong. Mostly for the humans it's cold, and they stay warm by hiding inside the blankets.

But then the door opens, and the dust in my disassembler starts to swirl. The tall man with the sandy hair is standing there, just looking over the room. Mum has called him Carl.

He's been sick, but he is doing better. He dragged out the empty water barrel earlier and pushed in the new one. Then he returned the roller. But he was different then, and it took him a long time to get back. Nobody really noticed, but then he makes people nervous around him, especially with so few here during the day.

I noticed. I watch all of them. The bad men are excusing more of them when they get sick or hurt. They don't need them as much now. Even Jules gets to let his ankle heal.

Most of them accept it as normal. But I see the truth. They do the best they can. They lie to themselves. Even Mum does now. But this isn't my home. I watch, keeping Jules and Mum safe. But all I want anymore is to go home.

Carl knows too. I've seen him during the day. One of the bad men with the nice clothes looks at him a lot. Jules is sorry for him. But then Jules was hurt by the other children all the time before I came along.

But Carl's different now, since walking in the door, looking taller and stronger than usual. He isn't looking at the ground. He looks at the children, then Jules, and stops.

The dust is swirling harder now, red flashes appearing. Carl has his hands on his hips. He's moving towards Jules now. Kukalaka is moving towards him too, but I have the disassembler.

Mum had said, once, to Aunt Nancy that she kept an eye on him. She thought Jules was sleeping but I was listening. I listen to all of them. I looked at Mum and she had this gleam in her eyes that was different, like she wanted to avenge something.

Carl has a mean look now, like he's scared. Jules has been sent to work with him, but never alone. Now only Dorothy and Aunt Nancy are here and both of them are asleep.

Jules looks up from his play as Carl stands directly above him. He's too close to Jules, breaking their own rules. One of the sticks falls and Carl breaks it.

Jules looks up at him, broken hearted. Tears start to fall. It took him a lot of work to find his toys, to hide them as he brought them back. He treasures them as only children with only a few toys can.

I'm so near I can hear Carl's breathing. He stares at Jules as I hurry closer.

I need to defend him, but Jules won't let me in. Maybe he's mad at me since I abandoned him. But for now all I can do is watch.

Carl leans down, picks up another stick, breaks it. Jules is crying now. I need to help him, but I can't if he pushes me away. I left him for too long. The Avenger has failed again.

Carl is just inches away from him, breaking all the rules, entering private space. Jules is holding his broken sticks, sobbing as he looks at them, ignoring the man above him.

Then Carl smiles. The dust swirls, the red flashes everywhere. The smile is evil, dangerous. I must get in. Kukalaka and I surround Jules, but can't help if he's keeping me away. Carl can't see me without the boy.

But I can see Carl. I can see the fear in his eyes. He has a secret and he's afraid of Jules, afraid somehow he'll tell, afraid enough to hurt.

It's the man, the bad one that looks at him all the time. The rest don't see, don't want to. But he is worried Jules will.

He's picking up another stick, ready to break it. Jules looks up, scared, sobbing. He hugs his bear, reaches for the stick and tries to take it as Carl taunts him with it.

Outraged, angry and desperate, the dust glows bright and the flashes are so strong I can barely contain them. But Jules is too distraught to see me. He took a long time gathering his sticks. Toys here are special, even little pieces of wood.

"Told you," he taunts. "Told you he'd get to you, you'd pay." He grabs more of the sticks and Jules draws back, afraid and bawling.

I look at Kukalaka hoping he can make a difference. But he shrugs in frustration. I try to force my way into Jules but he can't hear or see me at all.

Then a voice, older and angry sounds across the room. Dorothy is awake, and she stomps her way over to Carl.

He doesn't back off, not right away, but he drops the sticks on the blankets. Jules looks up at her, rescue in his eyes. Kukalaka and I back off.

With the look in Dorothy's eyes, he doesn't need us.

"Get away from him, now," she orders. Carl is startled, didn't hear her approach. He takes a step back, heading towards his blankets. But he doesn't make it. She shoves him down, now away from Jules, who is finally picking up his remaining sticks.

He lands on a matt along the pathway, and doesn't try to get up. "I didn't hurt him. I just broke a few of his little sticks." He looks up at her, surrendering to her anger. "Look, you've never had to work with him. He takes all day to do what he should in an hour. You do all the rest of the work."

She is staring at him, still as angry as before. I can see him fade, fall into himself as she moves closer. He would have hurt Jules, I could tell. But not now. Now he's fading back to his sadness.

"Maybe you don't remember when they dumped you in the doorway. You have no right to complain. If you come near him again, or something happens when you were around, and everybody knows about your little," she pauses, but he doesn't let her fill in the word.

"You want to protect him, go ahead. But I wouldn't trust him anymore than you trust me." He looks up at her, defeated but not willing to concede.

"Oh, I trust you. You won't get anyone in trouble. Remember, justice is deaf. As long as we don't see anything, you can pretend you're not a slut. But all it takes is one word. Just one small observation." Then she adds, quietly, "I might even tell them about *him*."

Carl crumples. He looks at the matt, slumping his whole body. I don't understand, but it doesn't matter. He'll leave Jules alone.

But I look around the room. At home, he'd be locked in the cage. Even after the tripods stopped coming, we didn't let the bait out of the cage. Here, they let him live among them, pretending, and I don't understand.

But as Dorothy leaves he stays huddled on the matt, staring ahead. Jules is carefully holding his sticks, tears still running down his cheeks over the broken ones in his other hand.

Then, abruptly, Carl rises, and stumbles towards the door. With his cold, he shouldn't be out in the snow. He did his job for the day. But he taps on the door, and it's opened. He stumbles out without hat or gloves. I wonder if he will forget to come back.

But a while later, Jules now wrapped in his blanket and Dorothy telling him a story, the door opens and Carl stumbles back in. His coat is soaked and head is dripping. He ignores the few people in the room as he goes to Jules.

"Here, hope you like them." He drops a handful of sticks in front of Jules, strong pieces, long and short, and won't look at Dorothy.

Jules stares at him, but only momentarily. He reaches for the sticks, ignoring that they are wet, and Carl leaves.

I listen as Dorothy finishes the story-Kukalaka and I both love her stories-but Carl is wrapped in his blankets now, wet clothes piled on the matt besides him, shivering. Dorothy lets Jules play with his new sticks, tears replaced with delight. She checks on Carl, but briefly. She tells wonderful stories, but she pretends about everything else.

I want to go home. Jules needs to go home, to take Mummy too. This place destroys people, already has changed Mum. I can't live here, and Jules will forget about me.

Even magic can't go on forever without someone to believe.

End, Surrender, Part 4c

End, part 4 of Surrender.


	24. Surrender Part 5 Chapter 24

The Green Hills of Home

SURRENDER

Part 5 - Endgame

This story is rated R due to graphic violence and non-consensual sex. This is not in every chapter or even found frequently, but it is there. Be forewarned.

Book Bibliography:

The following book is described/quoted in this chapter:

The Princess Bride, by William Goldman  
The War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells  
Life, the Universe, and Everything, by Douglas Adams

Chapter 24

It rained last night, a cold rain, though it doesn't mean a lot to me. It did to Jules, covered in mud and slush half the day as he worked hard this time. They are clearing roadways of snow. Jules dragged buckets to the side of the road and dumped them. At first, he thought it was fun, digging out the snow in shapes. Then he got wet and cold and just did what he was told. He left his bear behind this time, mostly because Mum insisted. He wrapped himself in a blanket and has been playing a game with the bear ever since returning, his food disappearing almost instantly.

Then there is the screaming. One of the women is having a baby. She is having some kind of trouble and Mummy has been sitting with her. Nobody is sleeping. Jules simply ignores the noise, piling up a bunch of sticks and letting the bear knock it down. He keeps babbling to the bear too, over and over. Probably most people would prefer to be able to ignore the noise like Jules does.

Mummy shakes her head, several of the other women standing nearby. The father, sitting by his wife and holding her hand, doesn't notice as they leave.

Mummy is quiet, sad. They aren't trying to help anymore. "I tried," she tells them. "I had the quick class in childbirth but this is beyond what I know." She looks at Jules, giggling as he talks to his bear. "We need *him*."

What could Jules do to help?

The women go back to the mother, trying again, doing their best because they always do, even when it won't matter.

And then, suddenly, there is a blinding flash-and I *know*. I must go home now. The pirates are invading. I can see their ship approaching, ready to steal what we've been able to grow after their last visit. If I don't leave now there will be nothing to save. Mummy looks up, suddenly confused. I rush to Jules, merge into him, without stopping his play or babbling. Mummy comes to me, taking my hand.

"We need you *now*," she says.

The light is so bright, and I see Mum, not this stern, sad woman I've come to admire as she's taken such good care of Jules. We hold hands, Kukalaka too, and the drab but welcome walls of my own room and my own bed are there.

Jules the Avenger is home.

o0o

Someone is screaming. I am suddenly alert, on edge. Every bit of training and experience honed by the war and all the rest is on the surface, as I scramble out of the blankets, dropping some small thing in my hand. I sit up, half-aware that others are looking at me but blind to them. The woman is pale, her breathing labored. Ezri is following me, several others as well, and I immediately examine the woman. She's in labor, but the baby is caught. If something isn't done very soon I'll lose both of them.

"Hold her down," I order to no one in particular. I don't bother to explain what I'm going to do. It would waste time.

Ezri and the others, the husband as well take hold as I force my hand inside her, feeling for what instruments might have once told me. A cord, looped around a foot, pulling tighter. A breech birth. I take the baby in my hands, pushing back, while I remove the cord. I take a pulse, still strong. Not too late. Labor is still early, but she's screaming hysterically. She is too exhausted already. Shielding the baby with my hands, I deliver a daughter.

There is a lot of blood, but the baby is fine. The mother is exhausted, her body still in labor but she has ceased to scream. She looks at her baby, tears in her eyes.

"It will be a little bit," I explain. "I can't really hurry it up."

But she'll live. She didn't tear anything and her daughter is healthy. I sit with her until the final stage of the birth, and let the women clean her up. She is already nursing the child.

Then, Ezri takes my hand, drawing me back to the blankets I know to be mine, and the family I thought was dead.

I have no words to describe the way I feel inside. To call it intense joy would be an understatement. I am still bloody, still wet from the birth water. But I just hold her. Molly and Kara are plastered against me, sobbing. Yoshi is babbling to me. Tessie tries to push her way between us, her little hands reaching for my beard.

I thought they were dead. I believed they had been dragged away to die in hell. But here they are locked in an embrace on the blankets and matts that are mine. I don't want to know why. I just want to hold them.

But I don't remember how I got here. I know I was in Weyoun's office, my family to be deported, ready to kill him. I lunged at him, had my hands on his throat, and then . . . I'm here.

It wasn't a dream. I remember the doctor and the baby. I remember little Jules sitting on my lap while the offer was made. I remember shouting at my father.

But how did I get here? Why is everybody staring at me? I don't care right now, as long as Ezri and the children are real.

I just hold them, never wanting to let go, until someone taps me hesitantly on the shoulder. Nancy Sloan, I notice. Why do I feel so *different* about her now, so close?

"She's bleeding a little. I don't think it's serious, but . . ."

I let go of Ezri and the children, go to the woman. I don't remember her. They move in new people from time to time. She must be new. She's going to be fine, half-asleep with the baby in her arms, I go back to my family.

Ezri looks at me, uncertain. "Julian?" she asks.

"I'm here," I tell her, pulling her close, kissing her with abandon.

"I just wanted to be sure," she says, a little out of breath.

I have to tell her, have to let her know I didn't betray them. "If *he* wasn't a liar, you'd be dead. He said you were being deported."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Not long after they took you we were detained, here at camp. The people with us were all being deported." She looks down, takes a breath, holds it for a heartbeat. "It's a long story, how it didn't happen. But *he* did try."

I want to know, but not now. I have a vague recollection of *him* saying Yoshi was dead, that Ezri was hurt, as if he believed it. I think he was going to have me executed. I don't remember why he didn't.

But he must have sent me back. Did he do it because he thought I'd just decide to die on my own if Ezri and the others were gone? It happens. Did someone lie to him? Why the hesitation in Ezri's voice, as if she doesn't *want* to tell me how she was rescued.

I watch her, carefully avoiding looking at me. I won't ask her about it now, but I know one out women have. We are slaves, available to be bought and sold. Who can tell if some caltie underling sells a few of the women before the shipment leaves?

Of course, that wouldn't figure with Weyoun's plans. "He wants hostages. He still thinks I'll cooperate with him, even after, after what I did." I ask myself if she should know about that. What if he wants to protect his secret? Why should I help him?

She kisses me. "Tomorrow. It's very late. There will still be work."

But I have to know. "How did I get here?"

"They sent you back, but you were . . . lost. Like Luther was."

I look towards Luther, holding his wife and feeling the baby move, but gazing at me with a victorias look in his eyes.

"Lost. How?" I insist.

"You were like a child," she says, hesitant. Then she turns professional on me. "It would be better for you to remember what you can on your own. We can fill in the details after that."

"It's . . . it's this big blank space that I can't see. How long have I been here?"

"A couple of months. Honestly, I didn't think you'd come out of it. Not like this. But," she smiles, a hint of tears in her eyes, "Welcome home."

I take her in my arms, hold her as tight as I can, "We're both home now," I say.

"Both?" she asks, distracted.

"Someone else. I don't know who. But he's home too. I just know."

The children yawn, and I realize how late it is. It was winter when I left, and it's still cold. But morning will come early.

I notice a rag doll, pick it up. It is so familiar but I don't remember ever seeing it before. "Yoshi's?"

"Yours." She shrugs. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

I should rest now. She's right, the bell will ring in a few hours and we need some sleep. But little images are filling in some of the blanks. I have to make sense of them, at least a few, before I could sleep.

Most people are asleep, the screaming having stopped. Why do I remember the screaming? A few people are staring, but I ignore them. I keep looking at the doll. "I thought it was Kukalaka." For a moment I wonder what to do with the memento. Maybe Yoshi would like it. But then, I lost the other Kukalaka, stolen like everything else. I think I'd like to keep this one. I tuck him under my pillow, kiss Ezri gently again. "He'll try again. He'll never give up. You know that."

"As long as you don't give in." Ezri takes my hand. "I thought it was done when they took us. Don't let him win."

The baby is crying, softly, and I remember another baby, one with the pixy ears of a Vorta. I wonder what the monsters *he* owns have done to the baby so far.

"I tried to kill him," I finally tell her, whispering the words. "I'm sure, I remember it. I wanted to make him know how much I hated him or he'd be dead by now."

"He won't let you have that chance again," she answers.

"If he does, I won't waste my time."

"Promise," she says.

On a whim, I say, "As you wish," and she gives me the oddest look.

"Just keep out of the Prince's way."

A quick flash of the Prince, sword in hand, with violet eyes and elegantly curved ears, and I feel better. Somehow, even if it makes no sense, I know he'll never bother me again. "As you wish," I tease her, but she's already asleep.

There isn't much time for dreaming before the bell, but there is a moment, just a flash, of red fire and swirling blue/green dust, and I know we both made it home.

o0o

Yawning, still exhausted from the long night, I went to work in a brand new world today. It was filled with lost people desperately hanging onto the illusion that they had a life. They are alive; we are valuable bodies to our captors and are neither starved nor left without protection from the weather. Our shelters are crowded but protect us from the rain and snow, and we're worked hard, but not so much that the healthy overly suffer. I was on snow detail today, and had a warm coat and boots, gloves and hat. It didn't make up for the cold or the wet, but they could do worse.

It's just that we are things to them, to be used and cared for up to a reasonable point. If you're too sick or hurt, or break too many rules, or refuse to work, you pass that point of value.

There are ways to survive even that, but they aren't pleasant. There is a certain building where one can go to offer their services as bed partners for the night to the guards, the pay in food and for those especially cooperative, unobtainable treats like hot baths and nice clothes-and permanent isolation from your own. Unlike Marta, they don't get the chance to make deals.

Sir and the guards and the suits in the office think they are different than us. They have nicer things, but the rest is the same. The Jem'Hadar are within easy reach of camp, and should our home grown traitors fail they can be back in no time. The guards probably don't consider it, but Sir does. He knows, understands where the others don't. He follows his orders just as we follow ours. Everybody pretends there is some choice in the matter.

There is none but the one to survive. And that *is* a choice.

These people around me, those that are family and friends, have made theirs. It was forged in little steps, one at a time. For some of them, resisting is unthinkable. Those that had to fight back are already gone. For the rest, they've simply gotten used to things.

I'm not used to things anymore. I shoveled show all day, getting my feet soaked in the grimy slush, and did what I was told. But there was a difference between us. I'll get my dinner, but I didn't try too hard. The man next to me pushed himself to his limit, determined to clear his little square alone, almost taking pride in what he'd done. Maybe for him that works. I didn't intrude. But I'll do what I need to eat, what I must to keep the guards out of my life. Nothing more.

Which one of us is the slave, I wonder? Is it him, grabbing a little pride in his work, affirming that he hasn't lost everything? Or is it me, having chosen to just do enough because I have to?

But I am not property. I do not belong to them. Most of all, I will never belong to *him* again.

And yet, I never have. I have lied to him, played pretend, for everyone but Ezri. I've refused, seen my friend murdered and my own life destroyed. But I never let him own me.

We're eating inside tonight. I don't know if this is normal. There are so many daily details of this place I no longer can assume. My bowl of soup is empty, and I'm finishing my last few bites of the kenexa fruit. The children are playing and Ezri is with her friends. A little time by myself is what I need right now, a few matts of privacy to help me sort out all the uncertainties.

Luther stops nearby, turning towards me as if he's going to say something. But he stops, hesitates, and leaves. I watch as he finds Ezri, speaking privately to her for a quick moment before going back to his wife.

What's wrong with him? He was getting a little better. Why do I prefer him to stay as far away from me as he can?

The fruit is so good, ripe and sweet. There is an odd feeling to each bite, a familiarity and strangeness that intermix. But they have fruit because of me, because I played the game smart at least once. I'd be isolated, probably find myself locked outside after work some night, if they knew why we had fruit. But they'd eat it anyway.

I kept *his* secret quiet, but how much of that choice was to keep the Jem'Hadar away, to keep our people from being the first victims when the Jem'Hadar knew? They are as much slaves as we, as Weyoun is in his own way. When you take choice away, when you deny any other option but subservience, all you have left is slavery. How ironic that Weyoun is trying to undo that sin while honoring the memory of those who made it.

Of course, I still have medicine. My stock of bandages is still there, though the local drugs will need replenishing this spring. I like the way they hesitate when they come, as if they have to make themselves speak to me. I like that I matter in at least one way. It makes up a little for the lowly place I have in their world.

I'm still not one of them, never really will be. They all think that *he* could come again, play more games with my life. They don't want to get in the way.

I wish I could tell Luther he was right, that I understand now. I wish I could tell all of them that I tried to kill him.

*A flash of a face, violet eyes, pixy ears, in elegant wedding dress as he dares me to do it. A swirl of blue/green, with lightning bolts of red, trapping him, shrinking him until he falls into sticky dust. A satisfaction that he will never touch me again.*

I stare at Ezri, just looking at me. "Julian? Are your still here?"

Shaking my head, I try to clear the image but it's still there. "Ugh, just thinking," I whisper, but she clearly doesn't buy it.

"Before it gets too dark, could you look at Nancy. Luther was worried about her. She's still not feeling well."

*Kind, gentle voice, taking me to places where I could soar. Laughing eyes as she reads, memories of places where children used to smile and laugh and dream.*

I always respected her, from the first moment she didn't shy from my pain after Miles died for me. I always wanted her to respect me, not listen to the others who made me into the slime at the bottom of the vat that could not mix without ruining the rest. But this is softer, a moment of tenderness in a place where that has been extinguished.

I must help her. I don't know how. But there has to be *something* which will make a difference.

"Did Luther ask you?" I have to know why he won't talk to me, why I'm relieved about it.

"He didn't want to disturb you," she explains. Maybe, maybe not. But it never bothered him before.

But I owe something to Nancy. I don't even know what. Edging around the blankets, I go to her. Luther backs off, standing too far to the side to just be giving me room.

It's getting dark, but there is enough light left to examine her. Ezri holds up a blanket for privacy. I can find nothing wrong, but she is listless, too tired. I need more time and light and instruments.

I wanted primitive medicine, and now I have it. Except a lot more of your patients die this way. Maybe Nancy has a simple chemical imbalance. But I can only guess and hope that some native herb grows near enough to be safely gathered that will make a difference.

And I have to tell Luther. Why do I loath him so much? I'd gotten used to him, broken and damaged, but the loathing isn't of the Luther Sloan who shakes and can't remember what he's been told to do. It is the man I originally grew to hate, to despise for the way he'd changed my life. And it is a personal anger, a madding fury with a reason still unknown to me. But he knows. We may not want anything to do with each other, but I owe him this. As Ezri covers her, I walk towards him.

He stays, but he's very cautious. "How is she?" he asks.

"Nothing I can identify, but something is wrong," I have to tell him. "Maybe some of the Bajoran herbal remedies might work if I can get any."

"Do your best, Doctor," he replies, tired. Then he looks up, a hint of hope in his eyes, "In a little while, you might even have a chance to find a healer to consult with."

I hear Luther telling me about the Breen war, finger talking a part. He knows how to listen, to become an invisible part of the scenery. But there is no need for subterfuge now. After insisting on resisting, acts from the smallest of inconveniences to open bloodshed, they have been paid back. Everyone's heard the rumor that the Bajorans, *all* of them, have been relegated to a status of sarki and are to be rounded up and branded. It's another lesson, like Realand's still consuming grief over Cassie and Ellie, and my own odd return as a child, of the price of rebellion.

I really don't want a conversation, but should feel him out for more information. "That might help, but I doubt there are many of them still alive." They'd already executed what remained of Bajor's government, and most of the surviving resistance leaders of yesteryear. The Healers were a special caste, and unless they were able to hide they're dead. But not Kira, I think. And then, cautiously, "How soon?" I know better than to ask more. But his wife is the one that's sick. He'd owe me if I save her, but then I *want* to keep her alive.

Never taking his eyes off Nancy, he starts towards her, then stops. "Very soon," is all he'll say, perhaps all he knows.

I wonder what the Bajorans will think of me. They'll probably despise me just as much as the rest. I want to get away from Luther, escape the bitter resentment that is so disturbing about his presence. But quite abruptly, he takes my hand. Looking me in the eyes, lost in some great inner turmoil, he whispers, "It happens slow." He stumbles over the words. "One day you'll wake up and it won't be so . . . blank."

Then I remember. The anger, the way they all stood around me, the way they talked to me. I don't remember what they said, or what I said, but they didn't like it. Especially, I remember how he hit me.

I pull back my hand, glare at him. I still don't know why, but the loathing is worse, the way he looks at me, so . . . sadly. "Why?" I ask, daring him to tell me, somehow defend himself. I notice Realand watching, keeping as far out of the way as he can.

Luther backs away, almost stumbling. I follow, one, two then three strides back, near Ezri, still standing by Nancy. I raise my hand to strike him, Luther's eyes fixed on my hand. He's staring at me with a gaze on the verge of sudden panic, but too frozen to move. He does not make a sound.

But Ezri does. She steps up to me, past Luther, staring at my hand. "Stop this," she says. "He did save your life."

I drop my hand, gingerly feeling my cheek as if he'd just smashed his palm into it. Luther retreats, all his attention on Nancy. Ezri takes my arm, nearly drags me back to our blankets.

I pull away, still angry. "Why did you stop me?" I ask. I refuse her attempts at calming me down. "He hit me. He hurt me for no good reason. Why do you say he saved my life?"

"Because he did. You were lost. You tried something very stupid, very dangerous. If it wasn't for Luther, you'd be dead now, buried alive in a little cage."

It shakes me. The current method of execution is simple. Strip the prisoner, tie them so they can't move, and lock them in a dark cage, then dropped into a hole. It's a living grave. They cut the vocal cords first so nobody can hear the screams as they lose their minds.

I can feel as the probe is forced down my throat, how my naked body is held tight as they cut me. Tasting blood, choking I fall forward with it spilling down my chin as I cough. Then the ropes, tight, feet tied at the ankles, knees bent back, underneath, kneeling. Struggling, despite the ropes and the blood, I'm shoved inside the cage, closed around me, pressing against my skin. Then it drops, down into darkness, down into oblivion.

I remember he was going to execute me. Would he have had them do that to me? I don't remember any details, if he said how. Shaking, I allow her to pull me inside the blankets, her arms around me. I should be safe here, entwined in the arms of my wife.

But she was to be deported. Why am I so certain that *he* will leave me alone? The only explanation I have is that he believes they were sent away, that they died on that rock consumed by the mines foul air.

What did rescue cost her? I stiffen and she turns and moves away, just a little.

"You weren't deported. Why?" I ask, my voice flat and uncompromising.

Ezri takes a careful breath. "First, they took us from here. All we could take was ourselves, no toys, not even a blanket. Then they locked us in this dark box, adding others as they went. There wasn't any food and almost no water. I don't know how long. But then the lights came on full bright so we'd be blinded." She pauses, slumping down, against me now. "They separated out the men, all the older boys that were tall enough. Then it went dark again."

She has her eyes closed now. "There were a couple of suicides. They heard what was coming." Her voice is dragging now. "Then they turned on the lights again. All the women were pulled away. They left the children alone."

I think of Jeffrey, how in a room full of children he became a monster. I can't imagine my own in a room like that.

I try to stop her. I didn't want to hear all the details. "That's enough."

"No," she says, adamant. "You're going to listen."

There is no compromise in her voice. I like that, even if she is aiming it at me.

"Tell me then."

"They picked us over. Most were sent back to the hold. But they liked me. One of them said I was exotic."

I cringe at the image of them staring at her, eyes stripping her bare. She describes how they were ordered to strip, one woman refusing who was summarily held until they tore off her clothes.

I remember what Jackson told me, long ago, about what would happen to her if she was deported. I remember his hands on me, wishing he could do more. And then . . . what? Some other memory, some terrible memory I don't want to remember.

"I did what they said," she says. "One of them, one of the specials, came up to me, started with his hands." I can feel the anger building, the desire to smash his hands for daring to touch her. "I let him. He traced my spots all the way down. He wasn't rough. The others were already getting started before they paid. He didn't hurt me."

"But he touched you." I should hold it back, but I can't. She has been spoiled, soiled by his hands.

"He buys me. They snicker as he orders me sent to his room."

I can't hear this. Something inside me, something I don't remember, fills me with dread-and anger, not at her new owner but *her* for just standing there, letting him paw her body. My hands reach around her, open her clothes, reach inside. I cup her breasts, feel the nipples harden, reach back and take them in my fingers and pinch, digging nails in hard. "Did he do this?" I ask.

"No," she says squirming, but I'm holding her too tight. "He came into his room, told me there was a surprise, and the children were sent in-to a room with toys and games and other things they couldn't even dream of."

"Unless you let him take you," I say, feeling soiled, trapping her arms, pulling down her clothes. "Unless you helped."

"No," she insists, trying to pull away. "He didn't touch me once we went to the room. He fed us, something indescribable. The children were ordered to stay in the other room after that."

I pinch hard, anger and jealously consuming me. Her back arches, her belly moves. She's squirming, but not entirely out of anger. Sometimes pretend used to be like this, but she did the demanding.

I won't release her. "You let him, didn't you, let him have you."

She's struggling, trying to break free. I can see the anger in her eyes. "I would have. To keep them alive. I made a promise."

I jerk her back. So did I, but I broke mine. She was there in that room because of me, selling herself. "Undress me," I order her, turning her around.

No beach appears. She pulls open my shirt, pulls it off. She does what I tell her to. But she says he would have, not that he did.

Holding her naked against me, I ask. "What did he do?"

"He drew pictures of me. He made me pose in some . . . interesting . . . poses, but didn't lay a hand on me."

"But he wanted to," I add.

"He wanted to. But he didn't. He was done with the pictures, ask me to come and undress him when something beeped. He had some kind of emergency at headquarters and had to go immediately. He traced my spots once, just teasing, and locked the door."

I want her, now, just as she is, no beach, no waves, just her body. I turn, pinning her under me, keeping back the arms as she starts to struggle. She bites as I come close, and she resists as I bite back, but she's excited, ready.

I take her. After we lay in an exhausted stupor with the blankets covering our bodies. I let up on her, her nipples bruised, welts from my own bites on her shoulder and neck. But her bites drew blood.

I don't release her. She licks the blood from the bites, her head falling back. She closes her eyes. "He didn't touch me. He had this fancy design on his hand, some thing with colors. He came back, quickly, with new clothes. And he had transfer papers back here, no names like they do now, just species and sex and age, like we'd just been shipped in. No Dax either."

I suddenly realize that Weyoun probably believes they are dead, that he's lost his hostages, that he won't come back looking. But every favor has its price and this one is on Ezri. The one with the design, the one that . . . what? I remember him too, but how? After they'd pulled me off Weyoun? Before they'd started beating me? I'm still holding her down. "He wanted you," I say.

"Yes, probably still does." She squirms, now angry. "Let me go," she demands.

I can't stand to touch her, not after he did. I let her go.

But she has other plans. Sometimes pretend got rough. Usually Ezri made it rough. She makes me pay for the way I treated her. I don't try to fight her. It just makes her more determined.

Then a flash. A leering grin looking at me. A touch of fire. I can't move. Ezri is so angry she doesn't really notice that I don't resist her at all.

Finally she's spent her own anger and lets me go. I fall asleep, the beach finally around me, dark this time, no birds or moon. Ezri leers, grins, her hands busy as she slides hands down bare body, but I remember now. Not Ezri. Her, Slimy, who I made into the wet lump. I remember the rope, the blood, the pain.

I can't sleep.

I remember how I let her touch me thinking it was my Ezri, how it felt to know that.

Was I hurting Ezri or Slimy? If the Special decides to come back, would I hurt Ezri worse, or kill her?

But she's alive. She's here, next to me, bruised and naked and alive. *He* must think her dead, me an idiot, and perhaps I'm free of him now.

If the special tries to take her I'll kill him, but for now I have back something I'd expected to lose forever. I take her hand, gently this time.

She rolls closer, snuggling. I don't want her that near, but there is no place to go. There is no beach now. Slimy took that away. I destroyed it when I killed her.

But it's so late and I'm so tired. I fall asleep and the waves crash, the wind blows, and the bloody lump covers everything with red. I have Ezri, if I can stand to touch her, but they took away the beach.

o0o

When we came back from work today we found them, two Bajoran families sitting on a pile of bedding and mats, staring at newly marked hands.

One of the men is older, his wife holding a small child and a woman staring silently at nothing. The other family is younger, man and woman, along with four children of varying ages.

As we enter the barn they look at us, worried and still stunned. All of them move closer, the older man standing.

People mutter about space under their breath. We are crowded enough without adding more people. And even if we came from different places, most everyone here is human. It didn't matter before, and we co-existed with each other remarkably well. But here it is different. Here your species is important. Bajorans used to be more protected, if they behaved. Now they have lost that and we have to put up with them too.

They wait on their matts, the older man standing, while the first crews to return file past, looking them over. What do we assume, why are they here? Are they problems being disciplined or are they the lucky ones, like we'd been.

There are rumors they are carving out a worse place for the Bajorans, hoping it stems the tide of violence outside in the Bajoran-assigned areas.

All of the early arrivals are back. The late crew will not be here for several hours, and we retreat to our matts, waiting.

Finally, the older man steps forward. He is trying very hard not to look at his hand, and the sarki brand, as he gestures with his arms. "We didn't know where to put these things, but if someone could direct us?"

He is careful. Who knows what kind of people we are? I'm not sure we even know ourselves. But looking around the room, I notice Dorothy is standing now. She steps carefully on the pathway, not in any hurry.

"We'll have to find a space," she says. "Dinner will be a few hours. We have time." She steps forward, taking his hand. "My name is Dorothy."

He's startled. I can see it in the way she is standing. The words are friendly. But the manner is cautious, filled with warning. We can't put them out the door, but we'll have to decide how we all feel.

"Tarlan Jaro," he says. Indicating the rest, he adds, nervously, "My family." He is cautious, his Standard heavily accented.

The young woman is still staring, devastated, at the door. The rest of them look up at Dorothy and the family patriarch. The young woman ignores all of it but the world inside her head.

The older woman stands, looking over Dorothy. "I am Teala, what you would call a personal name. Is that the sort of names you use among yourselves?"

She is close in age to Dorothy, not much taller. The two women probably both had families, and Teala has lost less of hers. The stunned young woman and the look of grief in the rest are proof enough.

Dorothy is polite, almost gracious when she wants to be. But underneath the civilized layer she's a woman who's lost and grieved and lives with the bitterness. And she knows how to take care with strangers.

But then, looking at Teala, I assume she does too. She isn't the least bit intimidated by Dorothy's warning look.

"Inside, it is a matter of choice. Names are usually not used outside." Dorothy speaks formally, slowly, as if Teala might need help understanding.

Teala replies just as formally. Her accent is noticeable, but not as thick as Tarlan's. Her tone is glacial. "I would assume. As we are among strangers with customs different from our own I consider it a polite consideration to ask."

They eye each other. Tarlan is watching his wife with fascination, nervous about the confrontation. But Teala stands straight and dignified. She does not look at her hand at all.

Dorothy says nothing for a moment. Then she says, softly, without the edge of before, "As one should. It is going to be difficult to find the space but I'm sure we can make room."

Dorothy has spoken. She accepts Teala and her family. She will expect the rest of us to do so as well.

Ezri is watching them, her fingers tracing the spots on her face. I hate the way it reminds me of the thing that touched her. I look away.

"It will be hard for them," she says. "There are certain things they won't expect, and we should explain about inside."

I don't know if she's being a counselor or if there isn't something else. We're used to her, but she still sees nothing but humans, hears human stories, and the revenge dreams of humans bent on punishing the ones who took away home. She has to wonder what came of Trill, of the mining colony her family lived. But nobody really knows, not yet, and few here really care.

We know we've lost home. It's hard to care about the rest.

Dorothy examines the child in Teala's arms, smiles. "Your grand daughter?"

Teala blanches, her voice unsteady. "My son's daughter, and his wife," she says, reaching for the girl who starts to collapse as she finally looks away from the door. "Our son was taken from us when we arrived. He has been locked away in a cage for rats."

There is silence, and Tarlan moves to his wife, does not hold her but stands very close as people glance at Carl.

Dorothy takes her hand. I remember Carl's description of the reception for new rats. I hope his wife doesn't know the details, not now. Later, it won't matter so much since the violation will be all done.

Ezri moves a little closer, not touching. I've noticed she's careful about that. I avoid looking at the rats when we get glimpses, and she knows about the nightmares. She is watching me. "What?" she says.

I don't bite. She's in professional mode. I'm not interested in talking. She doesn't know what the nightmares are about. None of them make sense except for what she does to me, even if I can't see her in the dreams.

"Hope he dies quick," I mumble.

Ezri moves away, satisfied. She probably thinks I'm thinking of her and the caltie, but it's mostly the glimpses inside my nightmares. I couldn't even describe them to her if I tried, if I wanted to. But I wonder, now, what happened to me? Just what did Slimy do that bought her to the wet lump she ended up? The woman's look is all too clear to me. She knows, perhaps not all the details, but enough.

So does Teala. She lets Dorothy take the child as she holds the mother. I glance at Carl and he is looking away.

Dorothy takes Teala's hand. "Come to my matts, both of you."

Teala helps the girl, almost carrying her. I watch, uneasy snatches of memories I do not understand in my mind. But I can't take my eyes off the older man. He watches, silent but with smoldering bitterness hiding behind the formal words as he thanks Dorothy.

Perhaps I am no longer alone. Would Miles have been relegated to the rats now, given an even slower death than he was, his wife taken with the decorated women they keep for the staff? Would knowing he was dying in little pieces have made it harder than the knowledge that it was over?

Dorothy comes forward, goes to talk with Tarlan. He follows her back with the rest of his family.

It occurs to me I don't know how this is handled now. Dorothy's moment of decision was new. Who decides how we fit them in now that we want them among us?

But I notice matts being moved about near Dorothy. There is a little more room there. Tarlan and family are squeezed in next to her matts. The young woman has been put to bed, the child being held by one of Dorothy's daughters, Dorothy sitting next to Teala in quiet conversation.

I keep thinking about Miles, how he was my example, my special punishment for refusing. I wonder what the Bajoran did, if there is some reprieve at the end for his son if he changes his mind.

I'm not paying any attention to the rest, caught up in the visions of blood that live in my mind. But someone hesitantly taps my shoulder. It is the Bajoran.

"Doctor? Dorothy said you were a healer. Areena won't talk, or even look at us, but we hoped you might look her over just the same. We were held in a cell, then my son was . . . dragged away. A little while later she was taken out too. I don't expect that she would tell us what happened, but she won't let us examine her for injuries either."

He speaks Standard, but doesn't know the layers of meaning. I can tell he doesn't mean it to come out so cold and clinical. "She won't let you touch her?" I ask, nervous, afraid of my own nightmares getting mixed up with the woman's.

"Not so," he says softly, as we walk back to his matts, "Nothing so abrupt as that. She won't let anyone help. She won't care for her daughter." He's frustrated, not wanting to go to a stranger but terrified for his child.

I stop him in a quiet spot, deciding what to say. "When she was returned were her clothes, ugh, different?"

He looks at me, deep hatred in his eyes. "She was gone a long time. She came back angry, dirty and bruised as if she'd fought them. But she would not say more than he was already dead, even if he would live a little while."

I notice Carl is watching. So does Tarlan. "From what we've heard . . ." I don't know what else to say.

He interupts me, quickly. "Dorothy has told me of that's one's fate. I was warned to beware of him, that he is unstable. But I suspect he is the reason we are here, to be certain I have constant reminder of my choice."

I have a feeling that Dorothy had other reasons to sent him to me. "Did Dorothy say anything else?"

"That you would understand."

I wonder if she's supplied all the details, too. But I'm in no mood to discuss my own miserable life.

"I might." Then I abruptly change the subject, switching to Bajoran in case he doesn't want to say it for others to hear. "Your daughter, is she ill? Or is she just in shock?"

He's surprised by his native language, opens up a little. "Areena lost her own family several months ago. They were deported. She hasn't been . . . right . . . since then. But she did care for the child, and my son was there." He pauses, and I notice he's looking at me. "You do understand. I can tell."

I ignore the comment. "If she's not sick or hurt I don't know what I can do. There isn't a lot I can do in any case. But I'll look her over." I keep my tone neutral. I'm sure he's here for a special reason. I suspect we share more than I'll admit.

Silently, I follow him to their matts. Areena is under a blanket, quite still but I doubt she's sleeping. Teala tells her a healer has come. But I personally doubt she'll ever heal from what was done to her.

She pulls away from them but Teala insists, pulls back the blankets. "He must examine you."

Teala waits while she uncurls herself. She's scared but won't show it. Instead, she covers it with an angry glare.

I keep thinking of Slimy, standing over me as I laid in wait, and approach with caution. I use her own language, trying to keep my voice even. "I just want to see if you need medical care. Did they hurt you? If there's any cuts they need treating."

She watches, wary. From the look in her eyes I wonder if she's entirely here. But she pulls down the shoulder of her uniform.

She's a mass of bruises. I should look her over better, but not yet. The cut on the shoulder isn't deep, but it's pink around it. It could infect and hasn't been cleaned.

I hold out my hand, but don't touch her. "I have to clean this. It will hurt but I don't want to hurt you."

I look up, getting Teala's attention. "I need my things. My wife knows where they are. Tell her it's a cut."

It would be better to go myself, knowing just what I want, but the woman is deciding if she'll let me even do that. I can't walk away now.

In a few minutes, Ezri appears with a small wrapped container. I lay out my things, cleaning the cut while the woman freezes in place, letting me work. I don't have much to use. But it isn't too bad. Bandaging the cut, I cover her again. "I'd leave off the shirt for now. I'll check it in the morning."

We leave her to her nightmares. I can guess. Just in case nobody tells Tarlan all the details of a rat's life, his son's wife can tell him how they make them. Teala follows me back to my matts, and watches as I put away my things.

"You have very little here," she notes, still using Bajoran.

"We have to be able to find it, and I'm afraid there aren't a lot of people around here who'd know what to look for anyway."

"I know," she says, the anger written in her voice, the chance to strike back, no matter how small a way, too tempting.

"That might be useful this spring."

Being able to practice even this sort of medicine makes life tolerable. Knowing they have to come and ask is satisfying. But it would be better if I could do more, treat them with a little more certainty it would work.

She nods, looking towards her matts. "I'll see if there are other injuries, later. Nothing can be done about the bruises."

"Dinner should be soon, once the late crew gets back," I add. "Inside, for now."

She's hungry too. All of them are hungry. She nods, leaves to go to her matts. But I have a feeling that something important has begun.

Dinner arrives with the late crew, and the Bajorans see nothing but their bowls. But they take their time with the fruit. I notice even Areena is eating her piece with relish.

Dorothy is called upon for a story. She keeps it short. Most of us are too tired for more than that.

I do my normal visit with Luther and Nancy. She's still too weak, too pale. I still don't know what's wrong. I can't tell Luther anything new.

But we are not alone here anymore. They have run out of patience with the Bajorans, and we get the special ones, set aside from their own.

Now I know what Luther meant. I wonder if he knows more about our recent arrivals than he would say.

Then there is a noise, and the door opens again. A lone figure walks into the semi-darkness, followed by the thud of a single ration of bedding and matt.

It's just light enough to see who it is. Kira has been returned to us.

o0o

We've made space for Kira. She doesn't need much, only enough for her single matt. But it's still very cold and Ezri made space next to us. It's been hours since her arrival, and she's not said a single word.

But now, the room almost dark, she's sitting with the blanket wrapped around her, nestled into the tumble of blankets from our matts. She holds up her newly marked hand, staring at it. It's different than ours, slightly smaller with a stripped boarder which now indicates the species. I can only guess they removed the old mark when she was allowed to stay with Odo.

She looks at me, holding out her hand. Softly she starts to speak, the sadness overwhelming. "First, they take our history, they use our historic castes for the names of their slave groups."

She pauses, staring at her hand. I can only wonder how we'd feel if they'd used names from our civilizations, soiling them as they have Bajoran history. I wonder if we'll be marked a second time with the strips along the boarder.

Then she looks down. "Then they take our land. Within a month they'd moved most of the surviving Bajoran population to the northern provinces. They use the rest for themselves and you." She looks across the room. "They didn't live this, but couldn't leave either."

"That's a ghetto," I say, remembering my reading on the Sanctuary Districts after we came home, thinking that since the calties had gotten so much authority a lot of sorry history would be repeated too.

She hardly pays any attention to me at all. "My people don't give in all that easy. They kept fighting. Little things, misdirected shipments, and big things," she pauses, "like bombs." She shivers, the temperature dropping and lies down with the blankets around her. "So they did to us what they've done to almost every other people in the Alpha quadrant. And they'll do worse when the resistance doesn't stop."

We've heard of the resistance, bombs and murders and retribution in kind. It hardly touches us. When it does it's catastrophic, since the punishments keep getting harder and more barbaric as they try to stop it. Today, Jackson would have died for the rock, and not slowly.

She looks at me, grief in her eyes. "It's been quite evident that it isn't working, that all it's causing is misery. But they don't listen. They just want to pay them back for dead families and stolen lives."

I look around me, the sea of people who are cooperating so they will not lose their families, so they will not lose their only touch with the past. If we'd not been forced into such absolute control would it be different? For us, the sort of resistance paid the Dominion by the Bajorans would be a disaster. We get punished by having rations cut, having work details made longer, having the family of the offender deported as well.

Now the Bajorans will have to live under the same rules. I wonder if they will eventually come to the same conclusion as most of us did.

Every day I go out and work, slowly it is true, but without protest, am I falling into the same compromise as the rest?

And if she is here, what has come of Odo? "How's Odo?" I ask her.

"He finally got what he really wanted, I think. He hates his own people. Weyoun never understood that." She rolls on her side, talking low, as if we were children whispering secrets at camp. "There was some trouble with the Jem'Hadar. I don't know what. Odo never bothered to ask. All Odo had to do was stand behind him in a transmission. But he refused, flat out."

She shifts around, finding a more comfortable place and I suspect she'd gotten used to the beds she and Odo had. "I thought they'd move me, but no, I stayed until the end. First they took away the replicator, and we got the same mush everyone else eats. Then, then they hurt him most, took his books. I thought he'd lose his mind, with nothing to do. All he had to do was just *stand* there and get them back. Weyoun probably faked it anyway."

She sits up, looking towards Ezri, "Is she asleep?"

She's been sleeping with the children of late, and all of them are out. "Long cold day. You'll find out tomorrow. She's out."

Kira sits up, looks at me. "We got moved to a cell. They did give us a cot, but that's all. Prison dress and food and all." She looks at Ezri again. "But then he found somewhere to get the Jem'Hadar out of his way. Trill."

I want to touch Ezri. I want to hold her and share the grief she'll feel. I think. I don't know how much any of us can *feel* anymore.

But Kira continues. "The Trills held an organized strike. The Jem'Hadar murdered half the population, deported most of the rest. They are resettling others on the planet now."

So we're both lost, without any home but where we are. "Odo was told. He makes sure Odo knows all the gruesome details of all the places they destroy. He doesn't tell Odo about all the places they've lost but you probably hear from the new arrivals."

I wonder why she's so talkative. I doubt she's aware of my reputation as the local nutcase. I hope she'll still talk to me later. "We hear a lot of things. Mostly we see a lot of calties."

Our eyes meet. She knows. Odo knows too, must know my "cure" didn't save them. I wonder if I should warn her that talking to me could be hard on her.

"They'll pay, you'll pay them back," she says.

Perhaps even those *believed* to be among the hated collaborators, I think to myself.

"Where's Odo now?" I ask.

"Alone, in a cell. He gets to see Weyoun and nobody else. They took away the bed too." She holds up her hand. "I was told that the only thing that will rescind this is Odo's cooperation and that won't happen."

She falls down into the blankets. "They will be moving more of us here, later in the spring. First they have to finish the project."

"What project?" I ask, playing dumb, remembering all the crates with Dominion script I've unloaded lately.

"They trashed a good portion of Bajor, and have to have somewhere to grow the food for the rest of . . . of us. This area is going to be a huge farm. They'll need lots of you, and us."

She grows quiet. So our future is to work fields, process grains to mush and be animals of the field. For now. I don't know how long it will take but eventually it will all fall apart.

When it does, at least we won't starve. It's late, the crates were heavy and there will be more tomorrow in a few hours. I watch as Ezri shifts around, the children cuddling closer. I miss her. I wish she'd let me near. But then when she touches me I think of the beach with the bloody water, and the nightmares get worse.

At least fields use children. Molly and Kara will be busy this spring. If she's lucky they'll spare Tessie, and perhaps by the time Yoshi is old enough he'll be free again. He's crawling with abandon now, trying to stand. We just don't have much for him to pull himself up with here.

But they'll still all work fields. It will be survival then, just as it is now. A different kind, but the work will be as hard. But for now, before that day comes, Yoshi and the others will have a right to grow up, a reason to be here. It won't be much of a life, but something.

More than Odo has, I think to myself as I finally fall into an exhausted sleep.

Kira wakes up early, though, and sitting with Ezri and I, Yoshi on her lap, playing with a toy, she keeps looking at Tarlan.

"You have quite a celebrity there," she mutters quietly enough only Ezri and I hear.

"He didn't say much about himself, just his family. One of his sons got tossed in the rat cage."

Kira eyes him with interest, almost compassion. "He lost most of them already. He's probably the last living former member of the Bajoran government."

I watch her face, looking for some sort of hope but see none. "Why is he here?" I ask, not interested in playing word games.

"You've been getting a lot of crates of late, I suspect. Before the war there was an independent project-Federation people but not sponsored by the Federation-with a simply land reclamation method. Back then Tarlan was a minister with the Provisional Government. He studied it, wanted to bring it here. But it didn't work. Bajoran pride got in the way and he resigned."

"But that didn't stop them from bringing it here later," I comment.

"No, it works after all. I guess it's being used all over the place where they have lots of mouths to feed." She looks around the room, "and plenty of bodies to harvest the food."

Ezri is looking at her, impatient. I keep wondering if the surviving Trills will be among them.

"What about him?" she says, looking at Tarlan.

"They wanted him to run it. He knew more about it than most people here. But his oldest son had been killed on a transport early during the war, and just about then his daughter and her family disappeared when they wiped out several villagers. He wasn't inclined to cooperate."

"And he's here, since he's going to be a part of this project of theirs one way or another," I add, looking toward Dorothy's matts, wondering what he'd told her.

"More or less. But you're lucky. You have his wife too." Kira traces the mark on her hand again, distracted. "She's a botanist, specializing in plant hybridization. She wouldn't work for them either. But eventually you'll need someone like that." She takes a bite of her fruit, savoring it. "Odo doesn't get fruit either, just the mush and not too much of that. He never said much, but he was just discovering taste, really getting used to it. Now he's learning that sometimes you don't care too much about that."

She gets quiet. She misses him, but won't say it. She doesn't expect to go back this time.

"I don't suppose they told Odo about me?" I ask, almost afraid he knew, that I'd find out something I didn't remember.

She shakes her head. "Only how many people he murders," she mutters. Then she looks up at me, studying the two of us. "Something changed."

"He took me again and I refused. I'm still not sure of part of it, but I came back like Luther. I barely remember the first few months back." Not all the details, but it will do.

She eyes me, then looks away. "Was it worth it?"

I remember the baby, and the human monster that was going to torment him. "I thought he'd kill me. I didn't care. I just wanted it over."

She glances at Ezri, carefully combing Tessie's hair and not looking at either of us. "Is it?"

Do I tell her? Will Ezri find a time to pass on the secret?

"He'd signed the order to have me executed, but I guess I amused him enough I got sent back to be the example. They don't know if I'm going to slip back into . . . there . . . so they keep their distance. I don't think he's going to ask again."

She is watching, and I can't look at her. "Somebody almost killed him. One of the guards slipped and we heard."

Ezri smiles. She looks at me, then Ezri. "Why not?"

I'm not in the barn, but his office. My hands are around his throat. I want to smell the fear, see him beg. He still shows mostly surprise.

"Julian?" asks Kira, tapping me on the shoulder.

I can't draw away, can't stop seeing his face as my hands squeezed harder. I don't want to be here. I see the beginnings of fear, but not enough. Letting up the pressure, he gasps for a breath as I tighten my grip. Then the footsteps, the sudden agony . . .

I can't get away from it. I can tell they are talking but can't understand. I can feel their hands on me but it isn't real. Only Weyoun, his throat still in my hands, the pain shooting through me, is real.

I can see them, as if through a haze, as Ezri takes her hand to slap me. But she pulls back. "No," she says, "No, we'll just loose him like we did before."

But the pain is growing, and the nightmare is making the haze worse, thicker and stronger like a wall of steel.

Then Kira is gripping my shoulders. I'm vaguely aware of it as if from a great distance. Jules is near, offering his hand.

The pain explodes inside me. I fall, dragged away from him, more pain filling me until there is nothing else. Jules still waits, his hand ready to banish it all, to take me away.

But then Kira is here too, standing tall and straight in her old red uniform. "Come back," she says. "Tessie needs you. She's scared, crying. Come back for Tessie."

Then Tessie is there, Jules still waiting, hand extended. "Daddy," she says, trying to run but her feet won't work. I look at Jules, so serene, his world so safe.

But I need Tessie. I can't leave her. "Come here, Tessie," I say, holding out my arms. The pain is so bad but I need her more.

She runs, lands in my arms.

I don't remember how she got there, but Tessie is curled inside me, sobbing. I realize I am too. I can't stop the sobs. Someone is holding me. Kira.

Ezri is sitting a little ways away, trying to comfort the children. Everyone is staring. I don't ever want to let go of Tessie.

"I didn't kill him," I whisper. "I wanted him to hurt more and they stunned me before he could die."

"Remember, don't ever give up hope or there isn't any, even when you can't see any reason. Like now."

I whisper, "He had them deported. A caltie wanted her and saved her life. He thinks they're dead." I take a breath, a little calmer. "He won't come back for me, but I almost killed them."

Kira is still holding me, Tessie snuggled calmly on my lap. "You did, but I'm sure you had reasons. I won't go back to Odo, but then in a way it's a relief to have it over."

Ezri is sitting near, uncomfortable but close. "That was close," she says, softly. "Thank you, Neres."

The bell dings warning that breakfast will be here soon, and we have to be ready for work before that. Even me, the local loonie. Luther still has his bad days now and then when he can't remember what he's doing, but he still has to stumble out to work even if all he does is get in the way.

I won't get in the way today. For once I look forward to work, to something to do that will drive away the images floating in my head. I'm scared. I remember bits and pieces of Jules. But I don't want his world again, not like that.

Dressing, I think of Arthur and Ford, stranded on the primitive Earth. With nothing left to do, Ford turned to madness, Arthur never getting the chance because the Sub-Eatha-Sens-O-Matic scanner told Ford that help was coming. But if he had gone to madness, would Arthur have stayed there, in that place where it doesn't hurt so much to be alone?

o0o

I'm just preoccupied, but they look, wondering. The melting snow is mixing with the mud and if I don't pay attention my feet will slip. I'm all here. Cold and miserable, wet to the skin with soaked boots, but here.

But they wonder. When they have to come for medical attention they hesitate now. Ezri watches me, ready to act, but she doesn't have to worry.

I won't let the monster out again.

If I can help it I won't let him out. But even I don't really know for sure.

Certain people avoid me. Realand doesn't come near, and Jeffrey keeps his looks to himself. He tried that once, just one flash of a look. I don't entirely remember getting up, but I'd taken two steps towards him before he had vanished. He takes the roundabout route to his blankets now to stay further away.

Luther probably knows, more than any of them, what is going on inside my head. I don't touch Nancy without Ezri being there, even though he knows I'd never hurt her. If there is anything to tell him she does. Not that there is anything new. She's still weak, growing weaker. At this rate she won't survive the baby.

Carl stares, once in a while, but he caught me staring back, too. He retreated, and he stays to his matts when I'm around now.

But others notice too, Daniel for one, and he's always been more open with me. Catherine and family do not come unless they have to, and Cindy insisted on Ezri holding the baby when she had a scratch I treated.

Dorothy is the only one that seems to be willing to be around me. But she's careful. She doesn't bring up touchy subjects.

Nobody mentions the books unless I offer and my family, now including Kira, is strictly off-limits.

Ezri watches, carefully never mentioning anything but daily events. She saw me stare as she traced her spots and doesn't do that anymore. Molly and Kara, the children who gave up childhood this spring, are visibly cautious around me. In a way I understand. I'm still bigger than them. My father didn't quit until I could hit back.

Tessie still comes, still sits on my lap, still entwines her fingers through my beard. She's my special child, the one that I hold dearest. And Yoshi is just happy to find his daddy again. If I hurt Tessie I'd let the guards finish me off. It would be easier to die that way than let Ezri or Kira do it.

If I touch any of them Kira will make sure I pay for it. She didn't have to say it. Ezri's hand was on her spots and I . . . She grabbed my hand and shoved me flat. All I had to see was the utter conviction in her eyes that I am dangerous and she wouldn't put up with me.

Kira knows about people like me. She's known about them all her life and knows just how to get rid of them too.

But I don't want to go. For oddly enough, for the first time, I do feel a part of these people. I'm pushed to the edge, given miserable work, inside and out. I dragged the refuse out yesterday and some of it spilled. Nobody offered to help clean it up. But there is inside and outside. Outside, I'm a body. I work. I clear a little of the melting mess of the roads, or shove heavy crates inside a warehouse. Inside, I may be crazy and dangerous and necessary, but I'm one of them, too.

And so are Tarlan and his family. Teala was pleased by the kenexa fruit. Long ago, when the Dominion and Bajor were officially "allies" it was studied as a new crop on Bajor. She remembered the taste, even if the memories of it were bitter.

Bajoran pride won that one too. But not this time. At least I don't have to worry about slipping and using the name.

But Jaro is different than the rest. Areena still sits and stares most of the time, and maybe he can deal with me better because I'm proof you can recover. Dorothy or someone has told him about Jules already.

But he sits with me. He takes his cue from my mood. If I'm willing to talk, we do. If I'm silent, we sit together. I still don't know the man, not really, but we understand each other.

For both of us, there was no good way out. For both of us, the cost has been so high we wonder now and again if it wasn't too much.

Yesterday he sat next to me at dinner, on my matts, the rest of them away. Abruptly, he mumbles to me, "I saw my son today, this pitiful half-starved creature, this animal I didn't recognize." He shook his head, took a deep breath. "I should tell Te-le he's alive. Not that it would much matter to Re-ne, but I should tell her anyway. But I can't. She'd want to know the details. I just can't put them in words."

I take his hand, grip it tight. I understand. There have been no rumors about Trill. I should tell Ezri. She deserves to know. But I can't. It hurts too much, is too close to what happened to home. We sleep side by side, protective layers of blanket between, for it's too cold not to. But if I tell her her people are gone, or scattered, that she bears a death sentence that a caltie saved her from, she'll never come back. I want her to come back. I don't know how, but I want the blankets to melt away between us and to hold her. That would be enough, for now.

I'd like back the beach too, but that is like the dreams of freedom we tease ourselves with, an impossible dream. We don't have those anymore.

End, Part 5 - Chapter 24 of Surrender


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